DC: I Became A Godfather

The motel was a moldy dump.

It reeked of bleach, roaches, and broken dreams—exactly what you'd expect from a budget "hourly inn" buried deep in Arkham's back alleys. Every wall was sweating mildew, the linoleum tiles were curling at the edges like they were trying to escape, and the staircase creaked like it had just seen war.

Edward Nygma—aka The Riddler, aka Gotham's most mentally unstable crossword—followed the girl up to the top floor like a man headed to execution.

"I don't get it," he muttered to himself. "Adam clearly knew she wasn't a real college grad. Why send me with her anyway? Is he just... being soft-hearted? Ah, such kindness will be the death of him someday..."

His eyes darted around the hallway, nose wrinkling at the scent. "Also, this place is clearly a sanitation hazard. No license, no records, no front desk protocols. How is this even in business?"

The girl in question didn't care. She strolled ahead in heels that clicked with every sway of her hips, her skirt clinging to her like it had been sewn on with desperation. She barely gave the concierge a glance as she swiped a key off the counter and tossed it in the air. No names. No IDs. No questions.

The lack of professionalism made Nygma twitch. As Gotham's unofficial king of obsessive order, watching a place this chaotic function without imploding was giving him an existential crisis.

Right then, Adam gave him a shove from behind.

"Focus on the other curves, genius. Stop doing a Yelp review in your head," he whispered like a sleazy life coach.

That's when Ed finally noticed it. The skirt.

Short. Tight. Traitorously effective. Her hips swayed like metronomes ticking down his common sense. He gulped.

She led them to a room at the end of the hall and opened the door like she'd done it a thousand times. Probably had.

The Riddler paused at the threshold, suddenly hesitant.

"C'mon, sweetie," the girl said, turning to smirk over her shoulder. "Ain't no angry dog in here. I don't bite... unless you ask nice."

Ed stared at her with the frozen expression of a man who'd just realized he forgot his parachute. His legs moved forward, but only because his brain had officially declared bankruptcy.

The room looked like a hundred other low-rent motel rooms: TV bolted to the wall, noisy AC wheezing, and a fridge that probably doubled as a crime scene.

One detail stood out: no windows.

Adam had told him that was standard around here—prevents runners. Not that Ed could run now. His legs were made of gelatin.

He sat at the edge of the bed like it was about to explode. Back straight. Hands fidgeting. Sweat forming. Heart galloping like it owed someone money.

"Why am I here? Why didn't I just admit I was a virgin and go home?" he muttered internally. "I'm not ready for this. I should've told her—"

Click.

He froze. She'd just covered the desk lamp with a sheer pink scarf. The room bloomed into a warm, dim blush, like a seduction scene from a bad soap opera.

Then she moved toward him.

Sat beside him.

Smiled.

Real close.

He felt his bones lose three pounds and lean forward automatically, lips puckering—

"Uh-uh! Whoa there, Romeo." She shoved him back with a firm hand. "You don't kiss me. That's for people who love me. You? You're just here for the product."

Apparently, this was a common rule in her line of work. Kissing was too personal. Too risky. Hygiene reasons. Flu season and all that.

The rejection hit Nygma like a slap made of math tests. He retreated to the edge of the bed again, red-faced, trembling, and looking like someone who'd just been booed off stage.

She sighed, rolled her eyes, and—out of sheer pity—began gently guiding him forward. Slowly. Patiently. Like one might ease a frightened animal out of hiding.

Things… progressed.

Meanwhile, Adam was downstairs in the lobby, squinting at a crumpled list of Gotham video store distributors under flickering fluorescent light.

"Damn it," he muttered. "Four stores? That's it? At this rate, I'll be selling DVDs in Arkham retirement homes by next week. I need a new buyer—fast."

Just then, a bang followed by a shout echoed from upstairs.

Adam froze.

"Goddammit, Ed—"

He shot up the stairs, taking them three at a time. When he reached the room and kicked open the door, he found… chaos.

Edward Nygma was standing in the middle of the room, pantsless, flailing his arms like an inflatable car dealership mascot.

"Adam! Finally! This woman—this charlatan—she's cheating! This wasn't a transaction! This was daylight robbery! I demand justice!"

The girl, sitting on the edge of the bed, was calmly lighting a cigarette like she'd just finished doing her taxes.

Adam stared, blinking slowly. "What the hell happened?"

"He's done," the girl said, shrugging. "In and out. Like a drive-thru."

Adam checked his watch.

1 minute. 29 seconds.

He almost fell over.

"You mean—he actually—already—?!"

"Yup."

Nygma was still ranting, pants around his ankles.

"This is unfair! She barely did anything! And the duration—! Adam, the guy in the next room lasted at least ten minutes! Ten! That's value for money! This? This was a scam!"

Adam pinched the bridge of his nose. He was trying very hard not to laugh.

This man—this future supervillain—was arguing about service duration like he was leaving a bad Amazon review.

"Ed, for the love of Gotham, pull your damn pants up."

"I will not let this injustice stand, Adam! I want a refund—or a rematch!"

Adam turned to the girl.

"You good?"

"More than good," she smirked, dragging on her cigarette. "He screamed like he saw God and collapsed like a house of cards. Easiest fifty bucks I've made all week."

Adam sighed and turned to Ed.

"Buddy... next time, try to last long enough to file the complaint afterwards."

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