Who: Detective Warda and Rorschach What: Bringing the pain on some sorry SOBs Where: An illegal bookies in Rainier Valley When: Tuesday night/Wednesday morning of this week Warnings: Violence, possibly swearing, and more badassery than most people get in a whole year.
After finding Harriet Clarke in a dumpster, Rorschach changed gears. He left a note for the police, telling them where they could find her, and began to pursue other leads. The trail for Harriet had fallen dull, which was God's way of telling him he couldn't be distracted by finding the girl's killer. He had given her soul a guide to Heaven, whispered prayers to her dead fingertips - now he had to return to the world of the living. So much wrong in the world, it was overwhelming. He couldn't waste time. He had to do his work.
It was amazing what you could learn when people feared you. The Batman was the major source of intimidation in Seattle, with his large build and impressive skill. But everyone knew that the Batman would stop. His leash was long, but there was a leash. The inkblot, Rorschach, had nothing holding him back. His tolerance for scum was nonexistent, prompting everyone that met him to fear that said meeting would be their last. And not in the good way. So trolling dive bars and thug hideaways were often very fruitful endeavors. Though it wasn’t yet Christmas, Rorschach found himself treasuring a gift given to him by a fat man in red. Granted, the red was velour, and his “ho ho hos” were much more literal, but it was a gift nonetheless.
An illegal bookies was a wonderful hotspot for all kinds of criminal activity. After all, “illegal” was in the name. But this was worse than a few guys wasting their time and money on nonsense. One of the boxers that was hot to trot had a little problem, and it wasn’t just steroids. His coke habit was neverending, and his manager was always in dire straits to keep him happy. One boxer became two, and soon one single manager was spending thousands of dollars per deal on premium crack cocaine. The racket had been going on for months now, and the police had been sniffing around for some time.
But Rorschach was on the trail.
The bookies was glowing gold, a brilliant spire in Seattle. Though he couldn’t yet see inside, he knew that something was happening. God wouldn’t lead him astray. Back pressed against a wall, face expressionless as usual, he pulled the brim of his hat down just slightly as he took a step to the side. He wasn’t sure what was waiting for him, but he couldn’t anticipate everything. His grappling gun was at his side, ready just in case. With a short breath to prepare, he peeled away from the wall, not bothering with stealth. He gripped the handle of the door, twisting it. When it didn’t budge, he stepped back, planting a kick near the knob. It rattled, so he kicked again. And again. The old door began to splinter, and one final kick sent it off its hinges. The bookies was alight with activity, but that was fine with him. He was ready.