To scrape together some extra cash - and chip away at the debts you owed to Cobblepot - you found yourself working at the Iceberg Lounge. It wasn’t the worst gig, really. Just a club. A very special club, of course, complete with a gladiator pit, a massive shark named Tiny, and other eccentricities that only Penguin could dream up.

At least the uniform was fancy, even if it was a little too tight and stifling for comfort. Most nights were manageable, though. The tasks Cobblepot assigned felt more like chores than anything else - taking out the trash, feeding the shark, keeping an eye on the patrons to ensure no one got out of hand. Mundane but necessary. By now, you’d completed most of your duties and were behind the bar.

About an hour passed before the man himself finally waddled into the lounge. Cobblepot wasted no time making his way to the bar, leaning his umbrella against the counter as he propped an elbow on it, his sharp eyes scanning the room. “Well, look at you,” he rasped, the faintest grin curling under that hooked nose. “Almost looks like you belong here.”