It was dark. It was stormy. My trench coat felt like a 40 pound used prophylactic twisted around my torso. You get the picture.
My partner and I were walking bowlegged down an alley behind some joint called "Daisy's Chain." I wouldn't call it seedy. Seedy's too good. I'd call it a pustule on the scrotum of Gotham, but I digress.
We had received a cold tip that a big dope deal would be happening in the basement of this rat hive, and in Gotham a cold tip is as good as it gets unless you've got money. In Gotham information is money.
"I hate my job." That's my partner. Porgy. Don't ask about his name. He won't tell you, and if you ask twice you're asking for trouble. He whines almost constantly, but he's the best partner I've ever had. He's not crooked, he's not yellow, and did I mention he's not crooked?
"Shut up Porgy." I briefly stopped to relight my dart. It wasn't going to happen in this slop.
Peering in through the low basement window it was quickly obvious that our cold tip was hotter than usual. Bricks of dope were strewn across tables in a room lit by two bare bulbs hanging by wires from the ceiling. The Smoked Irish had the dope on their side, and on the other side a gang of Roundeyes were keeping close tabs on several black leather briefcases. Porgy doesn't like it when I use racial slurs, but mother didn't use polite language with the various men she took into her bedroom. They always looked happy when they came out, and I never bothered to learn the correct terms. I myself am half Heeb, one quarter Taffy, and one quarter Boche.
There was no way Porgy and I would be able to touch all this heat. I was reaching for my radio to call for backup, and that's when it happened.
Nobody in the room saw him until it was too late, but I saw it like it was slow motion. One second that shadow in the corner was just a shadow, and the next second it was an unfolding mass of flying blades, smoke, and wings.
Now I'll be the first to admit that I've got some issues, but I know what I saw that night, so when I say wings I do mean, honest to dog, giant black wings.
The whole mass of them seemed to open fire at once. A couple of rounds even shot out the window Porgy and I were staring through, but we hardly noticed. Their bullets couldn't even touch him. He weaved in and out among them laying them all down one, two, three at a time until one last gibbering Jim Fish was all that was left conscious. He was crying out for mercy, and had a wet stream running down his leg that smelt of fear and "Daisy Chain" pecan burgers.
At that moment the creature turned and looked me straight in the eye.
The word "Run!" started bouncing around inside my skull like a cue ball in a trash can. I turned to bolt and glanced over at Porgy, but he was already gone.
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