Thanksgiving Night - Wayne Manor
The kitchen was a war zone of flour, sage, and anxiety.
"Do not touch that oven door!" I snapped, swatting Master Dick's hand away with a wooden spoon. "If you let the heat out, the soufflé will collapse, and I will be forced to feed you canned tuna for a week."
Dick, dressed in his civilian clothes but wearing his domino mask (he forgot to take it off), retreated. "I'm just hungry, Sebastian! It smells amazing."
"It is a heritage breed turkey, brined for forty-eight hours in a solution of cider, star anise, and secrets," I said, checking my pocket watch. "It requires exactly seventeen more minutes."
Bruce walked in. He was fully suited up as Batman, minus the cowl. He looked grim.
"We have to go," Bruce said.
I closed my eyes. I took a deep, calming breath.
"Young Master," I said, turning slowly, the wooden spoon still in my hand. "It is Thanksgiving. We have guests coming. Dr. Thompkins and Commissioner Gordon are expecting dinner at 7:00 PM."
"Gordon isn't coming," Bruce said, pulling on his gauntlets. "He just called. He got a tip. The 'Holiday' killer is making a move tonight."
"On Thanksgiving?" I sighed. "Criminals have absolutely no respect for culinary timing."
"The target is the Irish gang," Bruce explained. "Mickey 'The Mink' Sullivan and his crew. They're meeting at a safehouse in the Narrows to celebrate."
"Sullivan is a murderer and a racketeer," Dick added, grabbing his yellow cape. "Why do we care if someone takes him out?"
"Because we don't let executioners walk the streets," Bruce said sharply. "Even if they kill bad guys. If we let this slide, we're accomplices."
Bruce looked at me.
"Sebastian. The car."
I looked at the oven. I looked at the timer. 15 minutes.
"I will drive," I declared, untying my apron. "But I am leaving the oven on low. If we are not back in forty-five minutes, the bird will be dry. And if the bird is dry... I will personally throw the Joker off the roof of Blackgate."
The Narrows - Sullivan's Safehouse
The safehouse was a condemned bar called The Shamrock. Inside, Mickey Sullivan and his five lieutenants were eating a feast of takeout Chinese food and cheap whiskey.
We perched on the rainy rooftop of the tenement across the street.
"Heat signatures confirm six targets inside," Robin whispered, looking through his binoculars. "They're eating lo mein. On Thanksgiving. That's the real crime."
"Stay focused," Batman commanded. "The killer uses a .22 pistol. Suppressed. He'll be close."
"Or inside," I suggested.
Suddenly, the front door of the bar opened. A pizza delivery boy walked up. He carried a large flat box.
"Pizza?" Robin frowned. "They already have Chinese."
"Scan the box," Batman ordered.
I narrowed my eyes. My demon vision pierced the cardboard.
"There is no pepperoni," I said coldly. "There is a baby monitor taped to a block of C4."
"MOVE!" Batman shouted.
He didn't grapple. He launched himself off the roof, gliding across the street. Robin followed instantly.
They crashed through the front window of the bar just as the delivery boy dropped the box and ran.
"Everybody down!" Batman roared.
Mickey Sullivan, a fat man with a napkin tucked into his collar, jumped up. "It's the Bat! Blast him!"
"No, you idiots! The box!" Robin yelled, kicking the pizza box toward the heavy steel door of the walk-in freezer.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
"Cover!" I shouted, landing in the doorway.
I grabbed the heavy oak bar top and ripped it from the floor with one hand, flipping it over to create a shield for the gangsters.
BOOM.
The explosion was deafening. The freezer door blew off its hinges. The windows shattered outward. The bar was filled with smoke and debris.
But the blast had been contained enough. No one was dead.
Mickey Sullivan coughed, waving smoke away. He looked at Batman, then at the smoking crater where his dinner used to be.
"You..." Sullivan stammered, pointing a shaking gun at Batman. "You saved us?"
"Put the gun down, Sullivan," Batman growled, stepping out of the shadows. "Or I'll put you in the hospital myself."
"Who sent the bomb?" Sullivan yelled. " was it Falcone? Was it Maroni?"
"It was Holiday," Robin said, picking up a piece of charred cardboard.
Taped to the lid of the pizza box—miraculously unburnt—was a greeting card. It showed a cornucopia overflowing with skulls.
Happy Thanksgiving.
"He's targeting everyone," Batman said. "Italians. Irish. He wants a war."
Sullivan looked at the card. He turned pale. "I'm gettin' out of town. This city is cursed."
"You're going to jail," Batman corrected. "For racketeering."
"Better jail than the morgue," Sullivan dropped his gun. "Take me in."
Sirens wailed in the distance. Gordon was arriving.
"Let's go," Batman said to us.
"Wait," I paused.
I walked over to the ruined table. Amidst the debris, a single bottle of whiskey was intact. It was a Jameson 18 Year.
"Evidence?" Robin asked.
"Compensation," I replied, tucking the bottle into my coat. "For the turkey."
Wayne Manor - 8:30 PM
We were late.
We burst into the kitchen, smelling of smoke and explosives. I didn't even take off my coat. I sprinted to the oven.
I opened the door.
Golden brown. Skin crispy. Juices running clear.
"Perfection," I whispered, tears of relief almost forming in my eyes.
"Is it ruined?" Bruce asked, taking off his cowl. He had a smudge of soot on his cheek.
"It is... acceptable," I maintained my composure. "Go wash up. Our guests are in the library."
The Dining Room
Ten minutes later, we were seated.
Dr. Leslie Thompkins sat at the head. Harvey Dent and his wife, Gilda, were on the left. Jim Gordon was on the right. Bruce and Dick sat opposite them.
I carved the bird.
"To friends," Harvey Dent raised a glass. "And to surviving Gotham."
"Here here," Gordon murmured, looking tired.
As they ate, the conversation turned to the case.
"The Irish are singing," Gordon said, cutting his turkey. "Sullivan admitted that Maroni is bringing in 'freelancers' to deal with the Bat. Something about a 'Russian'?"
" The KGBeast?" Bruce asked, his voice tense.
"No," Dent interrupted. "Someone worse. They say he's never failed."
Dent looked at his reflection in the silverware.
"If the law can't stop these monsters," Dent whispered, almost to himself, "maybe we need a monster of our own."
I stopped pouring the gravy.
I looked at Harvey. The shadow around him was growing darker. It was feeding on his frustration.
"Mr. Dent," I said softly. "Care for some cranberry sauce? It is quite tart. It cuts through the richness."
Dent looked up, snapping out of his trance. "Uh... sure. Thanks, Sebastian."
I poured the sauce. It was deep red. Like blood.
As the dinner continued, filled with laughter and warmth, I stood in the shadows of the corner.
They were celebrating survival. But I knew the truth.
Holiday wasn't just killing mobsters. He was killing the hope of the city. He was forcing good men to make bad choices.
I looked at Bruce, laughing at a joke Dick made.
Eat up, Young Master, I thought. Winter is coming.
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