<div class="floatleft">(https://imageshack.us/a/img836/268/7802227226124f60b165803.jpg)</div><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><br/><strong>Real Name</strong>: Jason "Hendricks" Hendrickson / The Demolisher<br/><strong>Pseudonym</strong>: Mikhail "Misha" Pilkin / The Russian<br/><strong>Location</strong>: Inside The Iceberg Lounge at the poker table<br/><strong>Tags</strong>: NPC, Open<br/><br/><hr/><br/><br/><br/><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: times new roman;">The Iceberg Lounge was colder than any establishment would permit for its guests and customers. Everyone who wasn't either a polar bear or penguin was dressed for winter, Hendricks being one of them. He sat at a large table that had been composed of other smaller tables drawn together. On it sat his tumbler of warm vodka and on his knee, a penguinette. The dame was fitted in a skin-tight, black jumpsuit that clenched her breasts so tight they seemed to protrude from her chest like balloons, which wasn't too far from the truth. They were stuffed full of silicon. Blonde, red-head, brunette; if it hadn't been for her brows no one would have known. The suit hid her red locks, her fine-groomed brows being the only hint at her hair color. Her face was masked in dark make-up, colored-contacts, and false eyelashes. The girl was fake and honestly fake women weren't his type, but as a henchman under The Penguin, he had to lower his standards. He was no longer Jason Hendrickson. He was the scumbag, cut-throat known as Mikhail "Misha" Pilkin or "The Russian" - as cliché as it sounded, but it had become his nickname.<br/><br/>Misha sat at the opposite end of the table in a greyish-white fur coat with a collar so bushy it hid the sides of his face up to his eyes. Beneath it, he wore a storm-grey, wool sweater and black, charcoal jeans. Stoic, grey eyes stared across the table at a richly-dressed man who had been one of the Gotham elite visiting The Penguin's club. He hadn't a clue who he was only that his name was Benjamin Buchanan - some wealthy hot-shot CEO of a software company. The poker face Misha was wearing was as cold as his pseudo winter upbringing. If a man had spent as many years as him in the field, then an empty expression came almost naturally. He could tell that it was making the rich man uncomfortable as much as he tried to hide it. He just couldn't stop glancing at his hand. The cards weren't going to change any, but if Misha actually thought about it, what did he have to lose versus that guy?<br/><br/>The penguinette smiled. Her painted lips curving as she flirtatiously rested her acrylic, red nails against the bristly jaw of her Russian infatuation.<br/><br/>"You're making him nervous," she purred. She pressed her nails hard against his face until they left grooves in his skin.<br/><br/>Misha snatched her wrist and his steely pools locked onto her green ones. "You vant to feel my knife devooshka?"<br/><br/>Leaning forward, the penguinette lowered her lashes and cooed sensually, "That's not all I want to feel."<br/><br/>The two smirked at each other before they shared a heated kiss. Lips smashed against lips and just by looking at their cheeks, the suit could tell that there was much tongue swallowing going on. Frowning in aggravation, the man spoke on a perturbed, English accent, "Excuse me, but...are we still playing poker?"<br/><br/>Misha and the penguinette finished their kiss with an audible, wet smack. They stared tensely into each other's eyes before The Russian set his sights on the suit. Holding out his hand in the CEO's direction, Misha said, "Pajalsta, Mister Buchanan. I did not realize zat I vas keep-ping you from fold-ding."<br/><br/>"Huh," the Englishman chuckled. He took note of the large, silver signet ring on The Russian's finger. He must have been trying to intimidate him with the gesture for rumor had it that he often left a brand on the faces of those who had pissed him off. Mr. Buchanan was confident that his bodyguards could handle the brute. After this game, he didn't believe his opponent would take defeat so humbly. "If you weren't trying to hide your fear inside that harlot's throat, I may not have seen through you, Gaspadin Pilkin."<br/><br/>Misha arched a brow. "Fear?"<br/><br/>The Russian raised his brows and blinked as though he were shocked by the accusation. Retracting his hand, he slipped it inside his coat and removed three stacks of dollars. He held them before the penguinette and she pressed a kiss to the stacks before he tossed them into the pot. "Raise zirty-zousand. Vat do I got to lose Mister Buchanan?"<br/><br/>He picked up his tumbler to take a gulp from his vodka.<br/><br/>The Englishman frowned momentarily in contemplation as he stared at all the money that was in the pot. It hadn't been much since he was playing with a mere thug, but 110,000 dollars was more money than he felt Penguin scum deserved. So far most, if not all, the goons under The Penguin were halfwits. Their salaries didn't even compare to his own, which was why he suspected that it was so easy for The Russian to give his money away. He was bitten by the gambling bug and this game was probably the highlight of his day. Idiot.<br/><br/>Smirking, Mr. Buchanan flipped over his cards, "I shall end this child's game."<br/><br/><em>Ace high-flush</em>, the dealer announced.<br/><br/>The crowd about the table <em>oooed</em> at the hand. Misha tensed and leaned forward with disbelief etching his brow. The Englishman laughed sinisterly at the look on his competitor's face. His reaction had been priceless. Mr. Buchanan slapped a hand upon the table and rested a hand over his face. He wasn't sure he would be able to stop laughing. Seeing someone lose so pathetically had felt so savory. Wiping tears from his eyes, he spoke on a breathless chuckle, "Oh my, I must thank you for that, Gaspadin Pilkin. Unfortunately, this game wasn't enjoyable for the both of us. What would a thug do with 110,000? I am doing you a favor. I will consider your raise a donation to my firm. It is for the best. Think of all the drugs, vodka, and whores you might have wasted it on?"<br/><br/>The Englishman reached for the pot at the center of the table when suddenly a few dollars leapt into the air followed by a wooden <em>thunk!</em> Before his fingers was a four-inch hunting knife lodged into the table. The suit paled as he fearfully retracted his hand.<br/><br/>"Odnu minutu, Mister Buchanan," Misha said with facetious etiquette. His eyes lowered to his hand and slowly, dramatically, he flipped it over.<br/><br/><em>Straight flush</em>, the dealer announced.<br/><br/>Gasps exploded from the onlookers before an applause followed. The Russian was smiling, while Mr. Buchanan stared at the straight spades as though they were a figment of his imagination. Misha roared with laughter before he reached out and slapped both hands over the pile of money. He then grinned nice and big at the Englishman as he said, "One-hundred-and-ten-zousand...zink of all the drugs, vodka, and whores I can buy. Ha, ha, ha!"<br/><br/>With a face hot from anger and poor sportsmanship, Mr. Buchanan quickly removed himself from the table so he didn't feed into his urge to lob the knife into The Russian's face. Still roaring with laughter, The Russian watched the CEO leave butt-hurt and bade in a mocking British accent, "<em>Cheerio!</em>"<br/><br/>Hendricks hadn't been expecting any benefits from working for The Penguin. It must have been his lucky day!</span>