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Step up in this bitch, I look too fly.

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I’m taking screencaps for icons right now, so here’s a preemptive apology for the inevitable pic spam.

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Also, I’m well aware that the detail in my Oswald’s backstory about ripping out Umbrella Man’s throat with his teeth sounds particularly grimdark and edgy, however; it’s canon in at least one timeline.

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Oswald has a lot of esoteric skills that make sense when you remember he was an errand boy for the mob for years.

Got a bullet hole in your drywall or a stubborn blood stain in your carpet? He can take care of it.

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Uncle Ozzy teaches gun safety.

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Unrepentant monster Oswald is fine and all, but I like my Penguin with his humanity in tact.

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This isn't a roleplay blog about SUPERMAN. This is the story of a Kansas farm boy named Clark Kent who wasn't exactly very... Super for most of his life. Inspired by DC Comics Presents #87 & Superman: Secret Identity, this is a Clark Kent who doesn't exist in a comic book world. There is no Lex Luthor, there is no Gotham City, no Themyscira, no Green Lantern Corps. This is Earth-Prime. Our world. The real world.

So what happens when a seemingly human boy is suddenly given the powers of his favorite comic book character? How does he grapple with the fact he is the most powerful man on Earth? How does he navigate politics and government influence of his actions?

Well... even in our world, THE NEVER ENDING BATTLE FOR TRUTH, JUSTICE, AND A BETTER TOMORROW CONTINUES!

about - rules - verses

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"Uh-huh." Oswald's eyes narrow at the other man, Working with pigheaded morons like his associate here is going to give him a fucking aneurism one of these days. Imagine that, Gotham's Kingpin killed by stupidity. Whatever, it's just as well.

"That's how you get your pecker shot off, Roman. Cool it for five fucking minutes, okay? I ain't scared, I'm trying to keep us from ending up on t-shirts."

· 𓂃 ࣪˖🔪 ˖ ࣪𓂂 . "Oooh, touchy --" Mockingly returned back at that outburst. Funny coming from a man known for his own short temper and tantrums that follow. But Roman was full of hypocrisy.

Head tilts, and he's sure that's supposed to be a dig at him. His own fists clench. "Sometimes that's all you have to do to get fucking results." He's also not know for his patience for a reason.

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Hey Alexa, write a text post about how Oswald's transition from a typical thuggish gangster to a dapper, quirky gentleman is reflective of the change in Gotham's underworld. Now that most of the old crime families have been wiped out, freaks reign supreme. Oswald, always evolving and surviving, simply embraces the freak he's always been.

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the bat unfolds into... a note.

"Take better care of yourself, Cobblepot. Or it'll feel mean next time I have to kick your ass."

"Mean? MEAN?!" The flaring of Oswald's temper burns away any semblance of caution. His umbrella is tossed to the side, clattering against the floor as he picks up the note. "Kick my ass? Kick my ass? Who's gonna kick my ass? Ain't nobody, that's who!" Without wasting another boisterous word, the Penguin rips the note in two. "Take better care... Why, I oughta- Fuck else can I do?"

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There's a little red origami bat sitting on the table. It has hyperrealistic eyes drawn on the wings.

"The fuck is this?" Oswald stares at the paper-craft object suspiciously. A pudgy hand reaches out, but hesitation stops him from taking the thing. Anybody who's lived in Gotham for as long as he has knows better than to grab some random spooky shit left lying around.

Instead, Oswald takes several steps back and holds his umbrella out by the handle. His finger rests on the button to open its bulletproof canopy, hoping his reaction time is faster than whatever mechanism the paper bat is rigged with. He'll just give it a gentle poke or two. Poke poke.

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It’s not really too hard to spot that Oswald’s not really a proper gentleman. You’ll know it’s an act as soon as he opens his mouth. After his teeth were smashed in, he had a few gold replacements made and on top of that, he still speaks with that thick Noo Joisey type accent.

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Heyo, I'm writing up my Oswald's new bio and I just wanted to elaborate on some ideas.

So, Oswald hasn't always been a Cobblepot. Cobblepot is actually an anglicized version of his mother's maiden name, Kuppelput, and for most of his life, he's been Oswald Uccello.

The transition comes as something of a reinvention of himself. The Penguin hasn't always been the dapper gentleman that he is today, always dressed in a top hat and three piece suit. During his days in the Falcone crime family, he was just like any other thug in Gotham. Dressing snazzy and acting gentlemanly is an attempt to distance himself from who he used to be, and establish who he feels he was always meant to be. Oswald isn't hiding his identity or trying to be anyone different. He still goes by both Penguin and Oswald. It's just that as far as he's concerned, he's just being who who he would've always been, if not for the struggles of poverty and abuse.

That's not entirely true, though.

As you might've seen me mention, Oswald's gentlemanly attitude and charisma is a mask for the anger and resentment he's got bottled up. It comes out in flashes when his temper flares, toxic masculinity covering up his insecurities. That's when you see how a short, fat man like him could've survived to make it to the top of Gotham's food chain. He's fucking feral, just dressed nicely. Like a raccoon stuffed into an evening gown.

The incident that best exemplifies this is the way he murdered Umbrella Man for control of Gotham's criminal empire. It's also the incident that sparked his need for refinement and poshness. He needed to be an animal to take control, but he needs to be a gentleman to wield that power.

Beaten and bloody, his teeth smashed to pieces, Oswald acknowledges that he's an animal who's always fought for survival.

And in a display of animalistic aggression, Oswald tears Umbrella Man's throat out with his teeth.

The scene is adapted from One Bad Day. The set up is drastically different, but the payoff is the same.

After this, after establishing himself as the Kingpin of Gotham, Oswald begins dressing and acting like he's always been a posh, upper crust noble. It's all a mask to hide what a feral animal he can be, though.

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I got sick of trying to filter through all the shitty in character blogs that tag everything they post, so I made a directory for literary comic book blogs.

The URL’s @gordonsliterarydirectory if you wanna give it a follow. Send me your promo posts if you want them reblogged, too.

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That time Oswald killed Umbrella Man by biting out his throat.

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Oswald’s a funny guy because sometimes, he’s quick and agile enough to escape a car crusher before the trunk he’s been locked in is totally smashed, and then other times he’ll tumble down the stairs and somehow lose his pants in the process.

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He'd been sitting outside the door for two fucking hours, listening to Gotham's caped crusader and honorable commissioner grumble threats and demands in equal measure. For once, though, the mostly verbal/somewhat physical assault was directed at someone other than the Penguin. His empty club just happened to be the scene of the interrogation.

A few minutes had passed since the two crime fighters had stepped out of the room. Batman and Commissioner Gordon, both as noble as they were stubborn, were determined to make their suspect talk, but even they needed a break every now and then. It was a moment to breathe and to reassess, to plot new avenues of pressure and coercion. With no other leads, they needed this man to talk, and they weren't sure what they'd do if his lips remained sealed.

Oswald, on the other hand, knew exactly what he needed to do. Quietly, he stepped into his office and locked the door behind him.

A fire was lit inside his rotund belly, creeping up his chest and threatening to erupt into a boiling bile composed of every curse known to man, screamed until his throat is raw and sore. He hated being in this position, caught between his long-buried conscience and the crooked morals he'd adhered to for his entire adult life. Snitching was a mortal sin for a man like him, but when shit involved moving people rather than guns or dope, he was willing to call up an old friend for help.

He could tell that the man zip-tied to his office chair adhered to the same principals. Mob guys like them, the smart ones who lived, always did.

"I was one of Falcone's boys, back in the day. He fuckin' hated your boss, but who doesn't?" A laugh came from Oswald, charming in that sleazy way that he'd perfected. "It doesn't really matter now, but I'm just sayin', I get it. Not bein' a fuckin' rat, I mean."

Expensive Italian leather soles clicked against the floor as the Penguin stepped forward, reaching into his coat pocket to fetch one of his cigars from their gold-plated case. He took his time as he stepped over to his desk, hoping that the other mobster would feel a bit more chatty with him.

Success struck when the man returned Oswald's laugh. "You seem like a Falcone. What was with him and birds?"

The guillotine-like blade of Oswald's desktop cigar cutter sliced into the paper wrapping of the one he'd fetched from his pocket. He lit it, took a drag so deep his lungs burned even more than usual, and let the smoke billow out overhead.

"It's in the name, kid! It's in the name." Another laugh came from the Penguin. The two men, both tied inescapably to Gotham's underworld, had a kinship that could only be shared by men like them. It spanned across lines drawn in blood and as a statement towards it, Oswald held out his cigar for the other man to sample.

"But you know, those two bird brains out there just don't get it." He continued. "Now, I don't know shit about the guy under that mask, but I'm pretty sure he wasn't brought up in a Family. He might've had a family, but he wasn't in a Family, ya know? Capital F. He ain't like you and me. Guys like us, we'll do a lot of shit to save our own skins, but we ain't gonna fuckin' rat, and he don't get that."

Bringing the cigar back up to his own lips, Oswald took another drag. He held it in for a contemplative moment. The other man was saying something, but he didn't care to listen. Whatever he was blabbing about, it didn't matter. Oswald blew the smoke in his face and cut him off.

"He doesn't get it, so he doesn't know how far he'd have to go to make you talk. But like I said, I get it."

Oswald's right hand cupped the sitting mobster's cheek, his thumb digging into the soft flesh and pulling downwards. Try as he might, the man could not blink, and his demands for an explanation and release fell on ears that had once again gone deaf. The only thing that Oswald wanted to hear was an answer.

For someone like Batman or James Gordon, the cruelty that the Penguin was about to demonstrate would be unthinkable. It was something horrendous, something unforgivable except by those who've done worse, and Oswald had done worse. His soul was already blackened, permanently stained with the blood of men just like the one held in his grasp. Torture was beyond the pale, but murder was something else entirely.

Oswald didn't feel even a twinge of guilt as the bright red cherry of his cigar made contact with the struggling man's retina. The organ sizzled as it burned, though the sound couldn't be heard over the man's screaming. His vision erupted into a flash of white-hot pain that never seemed to dull, even as the room grew darker and darker until fading entirely into black.

By the time that Batman and the Commissioner had smashed through the deadbolt of Oswald's office, the man in the chair was leaning over and gasping for air. A pool of blood dripped down into his lap, and Oswald's extinguished cigar still jutted from his eye socket.

An explanation from him was demanded, but Oswald did not give one. Instead, he offered the answer he'd been given.

"They're at the docks. Largest shipping container on the smallest vessel."