16485/Mad Dog at Noonan's

Mad Dog at Noonan's
Date of Scene:	16 August 2024
Location:	Noonan's Sleazy Bar, Old Gotham
Synopsis:	Selina's 'business meeting' turns into a bloodbath when it turns out her potential employer slept with the daughter of a rival mobster. Guns are drawn, words are exchanged, Spawn lays waste to the sinners, and Wade heckles everyone to death.
Cast of Characters:	Catwoman, Shiloh Foster, Deadpool, Spawn

---

Catwoman has posed:
Noonan's Sleazy Bar sits in the heart of Old Gotham, the kind of place where you feel the need to check over your shoulder every few minutes. The smell hits you first -- a pungent blend of stale beer, cheap cigars, and something musty that clings to the walls like a bad memory. The air is thick with smoke, swirling under the dim lights that buzz faintly, casting a sickly yellow hue over the room. The neon sign outside flickers intermittently, its glow seeping in through the grimy windows and casting jagged shadows across the scratched-up tables.

At this late hour, the prime-time crowd is dwindling, leaving behind a handful of stragglers nursing the last of their drinks. A few men huddle around the scarred pool table, their laughter low and menacing as they exchange crude jokes over clinking balls and the slap of cue sticks. In the far corner, two guys argue over the dartboard, the tips of their cigarettes glowing faintly in the dimness.

The bar itself is a relic of a bygone era, its wooden surface worn smooth by countless elbows and slick with spilled liquor. Behind it, a grizzled bartender with more tattoos than teeth methodically wipes down glasses, his eyes darting from patron to patron with the wariness of a man who has seen too much and trusted too little.

At one of the wobbling tables near the back, a woman sits with a casual ease that belies the tension simmering just beneath the surface. Selina Kyle, with her dark, cat-eyed glasses and scarf pulled tight over her dark hair, blends into the scene just enough to avoid unwanted attention but still exudes an aura that demands respect. Her silvery shirt is tucked into tight-fitting leather pants that hug her curves in all the right ways, paired with heeled ankle boots that make a sharp click whenever she shifts her weight. No flashy jewelry adorns her -- just the confidence that comes with knowing she can handle whatever this night throws at her.

Across from her sits Marco "Mad Dog" Ricci, a man whose reputation precedes him in the worst ways. Ricci is a brute, the kind of thug who gets off on making others feel small. His bulky frame barely fits into the creaky chair, and his greasy hair is slicked back, revealing a face that looks like it's taken one too many punches over the years. His eyes roam over Selina with a predatory gleam, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he leans in, his fingers twitching on the scarred tabletop.

"So, whaddya say, sweetheart?" Ricci's voice is a gravelly drawl, dripping with condescension. "I'm offering you a real nice payday here. All you gotta do is show a little appreciation." His tone darkens, a dangerous edge creeping in as he sees Selina's lack of interest. The room seems to grow quieter as if the patrons are subconsciously attuned to the potential violence simmering between the two.

Selina doesn't flinch, doesn't show an ounce of the disgust she feels roiling in her gut. Ricci's the kind of man who thrives on fear, who would pounce the moment he senses weakness. Instead, she offers him a slow, calculating smile, leaning back in her chair with a languid grace that only heightens Ricci's unease.

"I'm not in the mood for charity work tonight, Ricci," she purrs, her voice cool and measured. "And you're starting to make this whole thing sound like more trouble than it's worth." Her words hang in the air, the challenge clear, as she watches the flicker of frustration in Ricci's eyes.

For a moment, it seems like he might snap -- like the beast inside him might leap out and tear through the fragile truce they've established. But Selina's gaze, steady and unyielding, holds him in place, a silent warning that she is not one to be trifled with.

Ricci forces a chuckle, though it comes out strained. "Alright, alright, no need to get all feisty. Just think it over, huh?" His fingers drum nervously on the table as he tries to mask the anxiety gnawing at him.

Shiloh Foster has posed:
Shiloh's patrols usually keep her in New York...but the pickings have been slim enough in her area lately that she's trying to expand her territory. It's not like she goes LOOKING for trouble. It just happens to find her. Like a knife in the back. Honestly. Though she's not wearing or looking anything like she does during her day job. The woman is in all black from the strapless halter top, to the pleather pants and stiletto heeled boots. A solid black collar settles around her throat and her hair is done nicely up. Sort of.

The real question should be where the hell is she hiding anything else she might be carrying on her? Maybe she relies on the 'kindness' of strangers to buy her a couple rounds before they try to get handsy. Maybe it's tucked somewhere nice and cleanly. When one does the job she does on the regular, you learn tricks. Like the black holsters on the thighs that blend into the pleather. The sheaths tucked against her back cause she's not carrying her regular swords with her tonight. Looking for trouble is one thing, asking for it is something entirely different.

But she's not looking. Nope. Not tonight. Tonight she just happens to be in Old Gotham for no reason what so ever than to see if it's all the rage people tend to give it. Sleazy bar. Gotham's finest. Question is will she find hero or villain wrapped up neatly.

Deadpool has posed:
Wade Wilson plopped onto a barstool a few seats away from Selina Kyle and Marco 'Mad Dog' Ricci, who were in the middle of their little pow-wow. He'd slipped in through the side door earlier, not because he was spying, oh no. "Spying is for amateurs," he muttered to himself. "I'm here for the drinks and the potential for fisticuffs. And maybe a side of unintentional comedy."

The bar was a dive, the kind of place where the smoke and stale regrets lingered like a bad cologne. Wade swirled his glass, taking a cautious sip of what he hoped was whiskey, but might have been liquid nails. "Ah, nothing like a drink with the subtlety of a wrecking ball," he quipped. "It's either character, or a toxic spill. Let's call it character."

From his vantage point, Wade could see Ricci's frustration simmering. "Look at Mr. Mad Dog over there," he whispered, mimicking Ricci's gruff tone. "I bet he's trying to figure out how to look intimidating while his brain's screaming, 'Please don't hurt me!' Classic move."

Ricci was floundering, clearly out of his depth, and Wade found it oddly entertaining. "If I didn't know any better," he mused, "I'd say he's auditioning for a role in a bad crime drama, 'starring Marco Ricci as the Not-So-Intimidating Mobster!'" He chuckled, "I mean, the guy's a walking cliche. If he had a sidekick, it'd probably be a nervous hamster whispering threats."

Selina Kyle, on the other hand, was as cool as a cucumber. Wade admired her effortlessly smooth demeanor. "If I were her," he thought, "I'd probably just lean back, crack a smile, and then casually disarm him with a witty retort. But hey, I'm more of a 'throw a grenade and see what happens' kinda guy."

Spawn has posed:
Old Gotham is one of the Hellspawn's favorite haunts. It's rundown, it's ill-maintained, and sightings of the giant man-bat-monster-thing soaring overhead tend to get blamed on a more famous (and less itinerant) revenge-junkie. All of this leads to the area presenting a buffet of evils for the monster to feed on while collecting the souls of those who commit them.

While everyone else is arriving at the worst shithole dive in Gotham, the worst evil in the tri-state area is out in the streets and alleys somewhere. Screams are common enough here, from the victims of crime. Tonight there have been more than usual, because the victims scream even louder to be heard over the predators who happen to be Spawn's targets. Most of those victims aren't even sure if they should be grateful to be saved, after witnessing the Hellspawn's unique methods of vigilantism.

Right now the streets and alleys are quiet, so the monster is on patrol.

Catwoman has posed:
Selina keeps her expression cool, even as she watches Ricci. His fingers twitch on the table, and his eyes narrow dangerously. She's about to wrap things up when the door to Noonan's slams open, and a hulking figure strides in, making the entire room tense.

The newcomer is even larger than Ricci, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. He's boisterous, with a voice that cuts through the murmur of the bar like a blade. His name is Vito "Big V" Carlucci, a man known for his brutal methods and short temper. He makes a beeline for their table, his eyes locked on Ricci with a fury that's barely contained.

"Ricci!" Vito's voice booms, silencing the room. "You think you can mess around with my daughter and walk away?" His tone is laced with venom, and as he reaches the table, he doesn't hesitate -- he grabs Ricci by the collar, yanking him up out of his seat. Ricci's chair clatters to the floor, the sound echoing in the tense silence.

Selina stays seated, her movements slow and deliberate as she casually slides back, creating distance. This isn't her fight, and she has no intention of getting caught in the crossfire. Ricci sputters, his earlier bravado crumbling as Vito's grip tightens.

"I didn't -- Vito, it's not what you think -- " Ricci stammers, but Vito isn't listening. The big man reaches into his coat, and in a heartbeat, he's pulling out a gun, pressing it hard against Ricci's temple. The cold click of the hammer being cocked is the only sound in the room.

"Say your prayers, Mad Dog," Vito growls, his finger twitching on the trigger.

Before Selina can slip away completely, two men from another table stand up, their own guns drawn and pointed at Vito. The tension in the bar ratchets up to a breaking point. One of them, a wiry guy with a scar running down his cheek, sneers at Vito. "Put the gun down, Carlucci. You shoot Ricci, and you're not walking out of here."

Shiloh Foster has posed:
What's that old saying? Never bring a knife to a gunfight? Well maybe that's true, but Shiloh doesn't really care for guns. At least, not for herself to use. Still, walking into a raggedy bar in the middle of a potential gun fight was not on her list of things to do. She watches from the shadows - having not really made it fully in yet before the tension was cranked up to eleven. "Well, surely isn't going to be the most uneventful of nights, that's for sure." The London-born mutters to herself while she assesses the situation.

Fingers at the ready at her sides too. Cause why not. She's nimble and limber, and has the pleasure of being an unknown on her side. A candle in the wind - or...something like that. Might even be able to pickpocket a person or two while everyone is distracted.

At least that might make daddy-kins proud.

Deadpool has posed:
Wade watched the scene unfold from his barstool, his curiosity piqued, but his popcorn inconveniently absent. "Oh, this is rich," he muttered, leaning forward as if the drama was happening on stage, and he had the best seat in the house. "We've got a rage-fueled mob boss, a nervous wreck, and two underwhelmingly armed henchmen, in a bar that's one bad joke away from collapsing into itself. This is better than a Netflix binge."

Vito 'Big V' Carlucci, with his shoulders so broad they could block out the sun, had stormed in like he owned the place, or at least like he was ready to own someone's soul. 'Big V' was more like 'Big Trouble.' Wade couldn't help but appreciate the entrance, even if they weren't in Little China. "Vito, huh? Sounds like the name of a mob boss who's really into over-the-top dramatics. Not that I'm complaining. It's like I'm watching 'The Godfather', but with more poor life choices, and fewer awards."

As Vito's booming voice cut through the murmur of the bar, Wade couldn't resist mimicking the man's thunderous tone. "Ricci! You think you can mess around with my daughter and walk away?" He threw his arms up in an exaggerated gesture. "Classic Big V. Nothing says 'I care' like a personal intervention."

Wade watched the shadowy figure with an eyebrow raised, bemused. "Classic move, by the way, nothing like adding a dash of 'unknown' to the chaos buffet."

Spawn has posed:
If there is such a thing as an emotional explosion, the events unfolding in Noonan's bar probably caused one. The rage of one, the terror of another, the cold intent of two more, the malicious humor of another, and the probable fear of other people who aren't carrying or aren't interested in getting involved. Shiloh and Selina Kyle are the only ones who aren't contributing to the sudden flare.

With a cold intent of its own, Spawn starts on his way toward the eruption of human drama. He moves fast, scaling walls and leaping across rooftops until he perches on a nearby building and stares down at the place.

Catwoman has posed:
The two gunmen remain steady, their weapons trained on Vito, while Ricci, visibly shaken, tries to inch away from the barrel pressed against his temple. Selina watches from her slightly reclined position, calculating her next move, her hand surreptitiously taking up a small black bag she'd placed on the floor next to her chair.

Suddenly, Deadpools's mocking voice cuts through the tension, mimicking Vito's earlier outburst, and for a split second, even Vito seems taken aback, his eyes flicking toward the merc with a mix of confusion and irritation.

Vito's jaw clenches, his patience wearing thin. "Mind your business, freak, unless you want to be the next one I put in the ground," he snaps, his voice low and threatening. The distraction, however, gives Ricci just enough of an opening to stammer out a desperate plea.

"Vito, listen to me! It was nothing, I swear! I didn't even -- " Ricci's words are cut off as Vito tightens his grip on the gun, shoving it harder against Ricci's temple, forcing him to wince.

"You think I'm stupid?" Vito growls, his voice rumbling through the bar like distant thunder. "You don't mess with my family and walk away. Not now, not ever."

As the tension in the room grows, Selina pushes her chair back slowly, the legs scraping against the worn floorboards, drawing the briefest glance from the men at the table. It's all she needs to begin slipping away, her movements smooth and deliberate.

But before she can fully retreat into the shadows, one of the gunmen speaks up, his voice tight with anger. "Carlucci, drop the gun, or I swear we'll drop you right here."

Vito's eyes flash with fury, and for a moment, it looks like he's going to pull the trigger anyway, despite the odds. But Selina catches the shift in his stance, the split-second hesitation as he calculates his chances. The man may be a brute, but he's not stupid.

Ricci's head snaps to the side, eyes shifted towards Selina, who's now standing as still as a statue, her eyes hidden behind the dark lenses of her sunglasses. "Know know me! Tell him!"

Selina's hands raise slightly in front of herself as Vita's gun swings from Ricci's head to pointing directly at hers, though there's decidedly more distance.

"Who is this?! Your whore?!" Vito demands.

"Oh... Vito, is it?" Selina purrs with a little grimace. "Let's not make this about me. It sounds like you have enough problems. I was just on my way out."

"Come on! Tell him!" Ricci insists again.

Shiloh Foster has posed:
"My my. Did I just happen to come in on the worst decision making night or what?" Shiloh asks. From the shadows. Where she's decidedly kept herself. Though she does have fingers on her throwing knives, the pocket opened for the just in case. It's a quick calculation of how many people she could disarm while keeping everyone else safe. Cause this will be her next move and she'll prove that sometimes. Just sometimes...

A knife at a gunfight can be a key thing to have.

"They tell you not to kill the one guy, then you turn on someone who made a snarky comment. And you've got more guns pointed at you than you have pointing away so who's -really- going to have a bad night at the end of it all? Hmm?" There's a brief flash of steel as she flings one throwing knife in a precision throw that hits Vito's wrist dead center between the two nerves. "Gotcha."

Deadpool has posed:
Wade's eyes widened with exaggerated shock at Vito's comment. "A freak? Me? Oh, Vito, I'm hurt. I prefer 'eccentric with a flair for the dramatic' or 'mercenary with a sense of humor.' Freak is so last season. But I'll let it slide this time. After all, when life gives you guns and rage, make a merc sandwich. Right?" He grinned, leaning casually on the bar as if he was critiquing the set of a bad soap opera.

He watched with amusement as Selina tried to slip away, her every move as smooth as a cat burglar's glide. But when Vito accused Selina of being Ricci's whore, Wade nearly choked, "Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa! Did you just call her a whore? Really? That's the best you've got, Vito? I mean, come on, if you're going to insult someone, at least make it creative. But let's be real, she isn't anyone's whore. Not in this economy!"

Wade flashed a grin that could only be described as 'smug with a side of mischief.' "Let me clear this up for you, Vito. If anyone's claiming ownership here, it's me. That's right, she's my whore. I mean, if we're throwing around labels and all that. But let's be honest, she's too classy for that kind of talk. So let's just agree that nobody's anyone's anything, and get back to the fun stuff, like dodging bullets and making bad decisions."

"But hey, everyone's got their own brand of crazy, right? Vito's got his guns, Ricci's got his panic attacks, and she's got her cool composure. Me? I've got all of that and a sense of humor that's just begging for a grand entrance. So let's not get too caught up in the small stuff. Grab some popcorn, folks, it's about to get interesting!"

Wade's eyes widened with delighted surprise as Shiloh's knife found its mark. "Oh-ho! Nice shot! And here I thought I was the only one bringing the pizzazz." He clapped with exaggerated enthusiasm, clearly enjoying the unexpected turn of events. "Sometimes the blade is mightier than the bullet."

Spawn has posed:
Since this particular Hellspawn really won't fit through a standard door, the seven foot tall humanoid instead passes straight through the street-facing wall and then through the guy who was trying to hold stock still with his back up against the plasterboard. Spawn seems to have an awareness that he's occupying the same space as a living thing, or else he's just lucky enough to take one extra stride which clears him of the guy before he solidifies. That guy, who just experienced the visual and auditory wonderland of being passed completely through by the armor and whatever's inside the armor and then that cape which moves like flowing blood, has already gone pale and started gibbering incoherently by the time the monster is finished with his entrance. At that point the giant white-on-black thing with the glowing green eyes is holding a sub-machine gun in each hand -- a mismatched set consisting of a MAC-10 in one hand and a TEC-9 in the other.

It may not be clear who's right and who's wrong, if anyone involved is either one, so the biggest evil thing with the biggest guns just hefts them up and starts shooting in a pair of short arcs aimed to catch Ricci, Vito, and the two gunmen who hold Vito at gunpoint.

Catwoman has posed:
Selina watches the scene unfold with growing irritation. Her fingers tighten around the small black bag she'd picked up earlier, her mind already running through the next steps. When Wade makes his ridiculous claim, she can't help but cut an exasperated glance his way, her patience thinning.

"Really?" she mutters, still at gunpoint, her voice low and dripping with irritation. "As much as I appreciate the sentiment, I'm not sure you're helping."

Vito's grip on the gun falters as Shiloh's knife strikes true, embedding itself in his wrist with precision. His fingers go numb, and the gun clatters to the floor, bouncing once before coming to rest at Ricci's feet. The pain and shock pull a string of curses from Vito as he instinctively grabs at his injured wrist, blood seeping through his fingers.

Ricci, seeing his chance, grabs the gun and scrambles to his feet, pointing it directly at Vito's head. His hands shake, but there's a wild look in his eyes as he steps back, putting some distance between himself and the larger man. "Not so tough now, huh, Carlucci?" Ricci spits, trying to regain some semblance of control.

Vito's eyes burn with rage, but with his weapon on the floor and his wrist throbbing in pain, he's forced to take a step back. "You think this changes anything, Ricci? You're a dead man walking," he snarls, his voice filled with venom. The two gunmen who had their weapons trained on Vito tense, unsure whether to intervene or let the situation play out. Their eyes flick between Ricci, Vito, and the other players in the room.

But before anyone can act further, the atmosphere in the bar shifts drastically. Suddenly, a massive, dark figure phases through the street-facing wall, looming over the scene with an almost tangible aura of menace. When Spawn, with glowing green eyes and an array of mismatched weaponry, steps into the room, everyone in the bar notices. The monster's presence is enough to make even the bravest soul falter, and the bar's already fragile peace teeters on the brink of shattering completely.

When Spawn raises the MAC-10 and TEC-9 in his hands, both barrels aimed squarely at the group of men caught in the middle of their power-struggle, they find themselves suddenly outgunned and outclassed. The bar descends into a suffocating silence, every eye locked on the demon with the glowing eyes, waiting for the inevitable eruption of violence.

Selina takes one last look at the scene before turning and ducking further into the shadows. This is not her fight, and she has no intention of sticking around to see how it plays out.

"WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?! KILL IT!" Ricci barks, and suddenly there's a hail of gunfire aimed right at Spawn.

Deadpool has posed:
Wade's eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store as Spawn made his grand entrance. "Well, if it isn't the Hellspawn himself! Talk about making an entrance. I thought I was the main attraction tonight, but it looks like I've been outdone by a seven-foot-tall nightmare with a taste for sub-machine guns. And here I was worried I'd have to step up my game."

He gestured to the bartender, waving his hand like he was trying to catch the guy's attention in a crowded theater. "Hey, bartender! Grab me a bowl of your finest nuts, will ya? I've got a feeling I'm going to need them to keep up with this show. It's not every day you get to see a demonic figure with more firepower than a military surplus store go all 'let's play target practice' on a bunch of wannabe tough guys. And trust me, this is definitely going to be a nuts-and-bolts kind of night."

As the bar erupted into chaos with Spawn's gunfire filling the air, Wade couldn't help but turn his attention back to Selina Kyle, who was making her exit. "Hey there! Strategic retreat, smart move, though I'd say you're missing out on the best seat in the house. But then again, with all the bullets flying around, I suppose that's not a bad call. Still, if you're looking for someone to chat with, you don't know where to find me."

Spawn has posed:
Spawn stops shooting and holds his guns up close to his mask as if examining them closely. He could have sworn he already let off a burst of fire from each weapon, sweeping enough to cut down all the guys who just started shooting at him. Probably a hallucination courtesy of Malbolge's pet Clown, the demon tasked with making sure this Hellspawn stays on task, whose favorite game is fucking with Spawn's head.

Now that he's taking gunfire from three sources, Spawn takes a long step forward while stabbing the barrels of his guns at his targets for the second time. He lets off another pair of automatic-fire bursts but this time he's only targeting Ricci and *one* of the pair of goons who's off on one side. Vito and the other goon get a reprieve!

The lead slugs raining on Spawn's body don't seem to have any effect at all. Most of the bullets just dent the armor and stick in place, but when a new slug impacts one of those it actually manages to punch through to achieve a small hole and a dribble of goo that glows green like the monster's eyes.

Catwoman has posed:
Selina doesn't wait to see how the chaos will unfold. As soon as the first hail of bullets erupts from Spawn's guns, she shifts back into the shadows, her form blending seamlessly with the dim light and the darkened corners of the bar. Ricci's desperate shout to "Kill it!" is swallowed by the deafening roar of gunfire, but it's already too late for him and his thugs.

Spawn's weapons bark with a relentless fury, cutting down Ricci and the closest gunman in a hail of bullets. The two men barely have time to react before they're riddled with lead, their bodies jerking violently before they slump to the floor, lifeless. The second gunman doesn't fare much better, his attempt to fire back at the monstrous figure proving futile as Spawn's bullets tear through him with deadly precision.

Vito, seeing the carnage unfold, scrambles on all fours in a frantic bid for the exit. His injured wrist leaves a slick trail of blood on the floor as he crawls, the pain and terror driving him to abandon all pretense of bravado.

Meanwhile, the remaining gunman continues to fire at Spawn, but it's clear that his bullets are doing little more than pissing off the hellish figure. Spawn barely seems to flinch as the rounds strike his armored body, the slugs embedding themselves in the dark material or ricocheting off with a metallic clang.

As the gunfire echoes through the bar, shattering glass and splintering wood, Selina casts one final glance over her shoulder, her expression a mix of bemusement and irritation as her gaze lands on Deadpool. Her lips curl into a small, disdainful smirk before she turns away, disappearing into the night with a graceful, fluid movement.

Whatever happens next is no longer her concern. She's had enough of this madness for one night, and there are better, quieter places to be. As she slips into the darkness of Gotham's streets, the distant sounds of gunfire fade, leaving her to her own thoughts and the next step in her plans.

Spawn has posed:
Once Ricci and one gunman are out of the picture, Spawn waits a moment to make sure his senses aren't compromised again. The last gunman keeps firing until his pistol gives that hollow, metallic clink that signals an empty chamber and an emptier magazine. Almost absently, the seven foot monster raises just one machine-pistol and gives that guy a final blast to center mass. The one bullethole in the body armor continues to ooze that glowing green whatever-it-is.

All that's left is Vito, scrambling on all fours for an exit, and the Hellspawn starts walking slowly. That is to say that the thing moves very slowly, and very deliberately, but with those freakishly long legs it only takes a moment for him to stand over the mob boss. This is the first time the monster actually looks at Deadpool, since Deadpool wasn't one of the people he came to collect. With his attention affixed on the Merc with the Mouth, the Hellspawn reaches down to grab Vito by the back of the neck and lifts the big guy clear off the floor with one hand. Then the glowing green eyes turn to the mob boss, suspended in the air, and Spawn asks, "Face, or gut?"

Vito starts to protest, at which point a chain erupts out of Spawn's abdomen and stabs into Vito's belly. That chain just keeps going, running like it had a heavy weight pulling on it, but instead of down the links just keep rushing into Vito's body until the nasty little spike on the end breaks out through his forehead. A spatter of blood strikes Spawn's mask, sizzling to brackish and stinking steam where droplets hit his burning eyes.