Once a year, every year, the Gotham elite will gather at the loftier high rise lounges to indulge in a night of opulence and what most of their rather stingy crop would call charity. Being as itâs Gotham, the central draw of the event -- ironically still named quite nobly after the late Martha and Thomas Wayne -- is not, in fact, the charity auction, nor the banquet.
As one might find in any city blackened enough by industry and puppeteered by rich boys with rich fathers who have richer fathers still, the real focal point of the evening is the after-party. Invitation-only, the location is changed every year by those of whom orchestrate the affair. It is, you see, a most salacious attendance, kept quite secret by those of whom appear on the roster. To put things quite bluntly, one would be surprised how many of Gothamâs uppercrust belong to a very specific group of fetish enthusiasts. To the layman, a juicy tabloid tidbit. To the field expert? Blackmail fodder that would result in a steady paycheck for years to come. Especially given the conveniently missing security footage from this yearâs resident establishment which included clear shots of every single face in attendance.
However, this criminal slight isnât the one which will be the center of our good antagonistsâ discussion tonight. As Edward spies the Westwood-clad foreigner making his entrance, his grin betrays his bit of mischief before he can blurt it out proudly like an idiot child.
âYou may want to call your lackeys and tell them to go home early. I arranged for a last-minute change in location for the after-party. My girls are collecting the tapes as we speak.â A waiter passes, and with a swooping motion, the Riddler snags a drink from his tray and offers it smugly to his conversational partner. âIâll apologize, too, for not apologizing about stealing your organizationâs mark tonight. But, as you recall, you were being kind of a little asshole.â
