Disclaimer: Part of the DC Legacy Fan Fic series. Writer does not own characters appearing here
Rated: E for everyone
- DC Legacy: Batman’s Butler #1
- DC Legacy: Batman’s Butler #2
- DC Legacy: Batman’s Butler #3
- DC Legacy: Batman’s Butler #4 (This Issue!)
- DC Legacy: Batman’s Butler #5
- DC Legacy: Batman’s Butler #6 (COMING SOON!)
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Continued fromDC Legacy: Batman’s Butler #3
Earlier…
The Baccarat table in the shadowy casino in Royale was on fire that night in October. A crowd had gathered, encircling the table, watching the players sweat. Tonight’s game was by far the most exciting game the casino had seen in a while.
The bank that night was a very pale Mediterranean fellow with an expensive pair of false teeth. He was known as “Mr. Number”, which one could obviously tell was an alias. No one really knew his back story of where he came from, but all could tell, based on his earnings this night, where he would be going.
Mr. Number glanced at his given cards and then pushed his entire collection of chips forward. The audience gasped at this gesture and Mr. Number flashed his artificially pearly whites. Like a shark, he looked to the competitor to his left.
The fellow was quite round and wore a cowboy hat, revealing his possible Texan roots. His large and expensive looking suit was drenched with sweat. At Mr. Number’s glance, the formally rich man shook his head, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief.
Mr. Number turned his attention to the man on his right. This older man appeared to be Indian in origin and wore a rusty red colored turban. His wizened hands had formally held multiple gold and jewel-encrusted rings, but now they were empty having all been traded for more chips which he had promptly lost. He raised one of those ringless hands in the universe sign of having had enough.
“If there is no else who dares play against me I shall take my leave,” Mr. Number said in his deep voice. He began to stand until movement at the opposite side of the table made him pause.
A thin man with graying brown hair cleared his throat. He pushed his collection of chips forward, a mischievous smirk on his face.
“All in,” the English gentlemen proclaimed to the shock of the crowd. Now, things were truly getting interesting.
“You think this is wise?” Mr. Number asked his new opponent, sitting back down. “The night is young and the…rose garden is already littered with my victims.”
“If you knew me well,” the Englishmen said, sipping a drink of his concoction, “you would know danger is in my job description.”
Mr. Number laughed, “You amuse me.” He flipped his two card onto the table so all could see his set, “but let us see how well you play.”
The Englishman reached for his two cards, but stopped when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
“Message for you, sir,” a small bellboy looking fellow stated.
The Englishman raised an eye brawl, “Can’t it wait?”
The messenger shook his head, “No, sir. It is urgent. They said they were from Headquarters and that you would know what that meant. And they said something about you being reinstated for a case.”
The Englishmen scowled and then sighed, “very well.”
He stood and Mr. Number spoke up, “It would appear you are forfeiting, Mr.--I’m sorry. I did not catch your name.”
“Oh, far from it!” the Englishmen smiled, flipping his two cards face up, “I am winning.” He turned to the messenger, “Put those chips on my account.”
He turned back to the stunned Mr. Number and stated, “And the name is Fleming. Ian Fleming.”
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