Cajun Croc

For Second-Chance Spring, the people spoke, and you chose Killer Croc! The hunky 2004 version of the character finds out what happens when he gets a chance at living large. 

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Killer Croc was leading the Joker, Harley Quinn, and the Penguin through the sewers of Gotham City in a rare villainous alliance to rob the First National Bank of Gotham. He found the manhole that opened in an alley just next to the building. “There’s a rusted pipeline leading into the bank,” Croc explained. “Water leakin’ into the stonework for years should make it nice and soft.” He slipped up first, his reptilian eyes glowing in the midnight gloom. The half-man, half-crocodile was a hulking brute of scales, muscle, and claws. Looming over his fellow villains, he curled his fist, tensed his powerful arm, and punched straight through the weakened wall, sending debris and dust flying everywhere, a burst pipe spitting water back at them.

“Eugh. Really, Croc, I’m starting to think this plan is all wet,” Joker quipped, mopping his face as he side-stepped the stream of water.

“Hey, we blow it up, and that’s instantly going to get the Bat on all y’all. Let’s get the loot and run, nice and quiet,” Croc replied.

“Fine by me,” Penguin muttered, rushing inside.

“Come along, Harley,” Joker said, grabbing his sidekick by the wrist. “The last thing we want is to let the walking purse and Oswald get the goods before us.” 

Croc was about to run in after the others, until he spotted something in the sky- the Bat Signal. He looked back inside. “Hey, y’all, looks like we’re getting some company.”

“Then we can bag a bat and the loot!” 

The reptilian snorted in frustration. He weighed his options, pocketed some gold in his vest, and then ran, leaping back into the sewers. Glancing back, he already heard the sounds of an explosive fight and then Joker’s cackling suddenly getting cut off, probably being punched out by the Bat.

“Yeah… I think what I really need is a change of scenery. So long, Gotham,” Croc said, diving into the water and heading for greener pastures.

It took Killer Croc weeks, swimming along rivers further and further down south, before a familiar smell hit his nostrils as he lurked in a dark, murky swamp. It smelled amazing; a blend of roasted garlic, paprika, pepper, and sizzling shrimp. Sniffing the air, Croc dared to raise his head up from the water, spotting a shack where the smell was coming from. The reptile slithered his way there, wood creaking under his weight as he pushed his way in. “Evenin’, ya’ll,” Croc grinned, his bulk filling the doorway. “How’s about ya’ll slide over that fried shrimp, and I’ll be on my way?”

Inside was a gang of four men, dressed in sleeveless denim shirts, with mops of hair and stubble. They also had a natural unwashed funk that offended Croc’s heightened senses, but thankfully, the delectable spices were balancing things out. Their mouths were left hanging open as the musclebound reptile pushed his way in, moving towards the fryer that had just produced a pile of fresh shrimp. 

“B-but… we was gonna have that to celebrate our heist!”

“Yeah? Shame.” Killer Croc grabbed a fistful, shoving it into his maw. “Aw, that’s the taste of heaven. You boys a little gang, then?”

“H-hey, man, we just stole a car! We’re badass!” one of the gang members offered weakly.

“Oh, a car!” Killer Croc chuckled, polishing off the shrimp and licking his fingers. “Well, hell. I only robbed the biggest bank in Gotham City, but if I knew I was walkin’ into the lair of a bunch-a car jackers, I’d’ve moved on. Anyway, thanks for the shrimp.”

“Wait! I know you!” one of the thieves shot up. “You’s that big gator that’s been givin’ Batman trouble fer years!”

“Killer Croc, yeah. Anyways, I’m on my way-”

Another of the gang shot up. “Wait! Mr. Croc, ya gotta help us! Make us into a real, badass gang!”
“Yeah. Nah, thanks.” Croc moved for the door.

“W-we’ll make ya more of the shrimp!”

The reptile stopped in his tracks, drumming his fingers on the doorframe. “Alright. I’ll help ya’ll out. But I ain’t goin’ out with ya on the field. I’m keepin’ a low profile. You do what I say, and follow my instructions to the letter.”

“Yeah, yeah, ya got it, Mr. Croc, boss!”

Croc nodded. “Alright. But first, where’d ya hide this car ya’ll are so proud of?”

The answer came with the claxon call of police sirens. Killer Croc slapped his forehead. “It’s right outside, ain’t it?”

His four new minions looked between each other. “Uh… yeah.”

“A’right.” Killer Croc flexed his powerful arms, cracking his knuckles. “I’ll deal with the cops. Ya’ll got another place to hide?”

“Oh yeah, Beau’s got a place further up the river,” another gang member said.

“Fine. Meet you there, and start fryin’ up my shrimp.” Croc bared his fangs and claws, and leapt from the shack, already chasing down one of the police cars, ready to pick it up and throw it into the water. 

Croc was settling into his new role as a Cajun Crime Boss; it was shocking how easy committing crimes were when he wasn't constantly hounded by some punk in a bat costume. He spent the first few weeks training up his new crew in combat and, when necessary, pounding in some common sense. From there, Croc’s gang began turning the bayou into their private playground, building up their resources from petty shoplifting and burglaries to robbing the local bank and starting up a protection racket. All the while, Croc kept his profile low, staying close to their new, slowly expanding headquarters. He was getting stir crazy; with him staying at the headquarters, there was little for him to do except to eat. 

In a different life his four gang members, Beau, Alphonse, Raphael, and Andre, would have made excellent cooks. Between the four of them was a collection of cajun family recipes that created the most amazing meals Croc had tasted in years; pulled pork, fried chicken, cajun shrimp, gumbo by the gallon, cornbread, crawfish, grits on the daily, with beignets and king cake for desserts. No one in Gotham had been able to cook proper cajun food, and now that he had all that he could eat, Croc’s love for his home state’s cuisine and lack of activity was beginning to show. He had no clothes to hide the growing bulk around his scaly middle, and trying to suck it in during his gang’s meetings was a losing battle. At first, it only made him look more intimidating; the larger he was, the faster the gang fell in line. But soon…

“Hey, uh… boss?”

“Hrmph?” Croc looked up from his bowl of gumbo- his fourth since the meeting to plan their next heist had started. His muzzle was stained, with a bit of crawfish hanging out of his teeth. The reptile’s scaly belly had swollen to the size of a beer keg, and the rest of his sinewy muscle and angular, savage features were beginning to soften and round out.

“Well, we was jus’ wonderin’ if you, ah, had any… allergies?”

Croc arched his brow. “Allergies?”

Beau, who had learned to keep his mouth shut, punched Andre in the arm to keep him from speaking up. “Well… you look a little bloated.”
“More like soft,” Raphael muttered. 

Croc moved with a level of agility that belied his bulk, reaching out for Raphael’s head. One thick, clawed hand wrapping around the goon’s face and slamming him on to the table, cracking and splintering the wood. “Did you just call me soft?”

“N-no! No, boss! I-I said… s… s’buff! You look like you’s buff!”

Croc snarled, letting the man go. “That’s what I thought you said. Now, Raph, you’ve made me hungry- the rest of you, get ready for the job tonight. Raphael? You’re gonna make me your famous fried chicken; five of ‘em, and if they ain’t good enough to shame the Colonel, then maybe I’ll eat you instead.”

“R-right, yeah, ‘course boss!” Raphael sputtered as the others scrambled, putting as much distance between them and the reptilian.

Croc grinned, letting Raphael go as he leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking ominously. Already he could hear the sizzling of the fryer as he looked to a map the gang had set up. This was just the start; without any sign of Batman, who was going to stop him?

“Yeah! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Croc leapt from the boat and landed on the dock to his hideout, the wooden supports groaning loudly. His belly, now swollen up to the point that it dominated his build and was in danger of making him wider than he was tall, wobbled as he lumbered back inside. “I ain’t been on a heist like that in years! Boys, bring up the loot. We’re gonna turn the entire state into our own little kingdom. Andre! Get the food ready, nothin’ whets my appetite more than raiding a US Armoury.”

“You got it, boss!” came the reply as experimental lasers and rifles were hauled off the boat. Croc’s five man gang was now a force to be reckoned with, and any doubts connected to their leader’s expanding waistline had been dashed. True, Croc could barely fit through the door, and it had slowed him down a bit; his limbs had lost any hint of definition and his scales were strained to contain the layers of flab swathed around every part of him. His legs rolled off one another, forcing him into a heavy, lumbering waddle, only his thick tail helping him keep any of his former agile balance. It required immense strength to keep all that bulk moving in any sort of fighting form, but thankfully, under it all, Croc still had immense strength and then some. He could tear through metal walls just as he always had, even as he used his wrecking ball of a gut to throw back his enemies and occasionally needed his minions to push him through a too-narrow hallway. He had learned to move with his weight, and seemed unconcerned with adding more to his frame. Still, as his gang had gone from strength to strength and was now a notorious syndicate, who were they to complain?

“A’right,” Croc leaned over the table, his belly spilling over the top and pressing up against his bloated arms. He kept himself steady with one hand while tearing into a rack of ribs with the other. “With these weapons, we can finally start expanding our operations.”

Raphael tried to stifle a laugh, earning a quick, angry look from Croc.

The reptilian criminal continued. “I want us to find a base in the city. We’re ready for the big leagues.”
Raphael again coughed loudly, and Croc snarled, forcing him into silence.

“As I was sayin’. It’s almost Mardi Gras. City will be packed. We can set up shop easy in the Quarter. Now, I’ve written up a list of some pretty tantalizing targets that’ll be at the Fat Tues- ya’ll wanna share what’s so funny, Raph?”

“Oh, nothin’ boss, nothin’,” Raphael snorted, trying to hide his smirk. “Just, y’know, I’m admirin’ your big ideas.”

Croc growled, slamming his fist against the table. “Now ya’ll think it’s so funny, when I’ve made ya’ll witless, spineless loafers some of the most feared criminals in the South!” He stalked over to Raph, the floor shaking under his weight, the shack practically leaning towards him as the weight shifted. “I swear, Raph, ya’ll got one more crack in you, and I’m gonna-” Before anyone knew what happened, Croc disappeared in a cloud of dust and a mixture of crashing and splashing. 

“Boss!” 

All of the gang rushed over, peering into the gaping hole where their leader had stood. “Ya good, boss?”

“I’m fine!” Croc snapped. The dust settled, and Croc stared back up at his minions from the murky swamp water beneath the shack. “Get the boats ready. We’re movin’ earlier than I thought.”
“Right, right,” Raphael nodded, still seeing an opportunity for a joke. “Think we need a bigger boat, boss?”

Croc glared up at Raphael. “Y’know what, Raph? Yeah. The rest of ya’ll go find a bigger boat. But you, Raph. Get on down here. I want some help, and I’m still hungry.”

Some weeks later, loud music from Mardi Gras made the walls shake in Croc’s dark room. The reptilian crime boss was celebrating the biggest day in the Bayou in style, lounged over a couch big enough for his weight and polishing off a king cake the size of a hubcap. His belly spilled over his legs, nearly able to reach the other end of the couch. It had swollen to gigantic dimensions, a sloshing sea of scales and lard that was always growling for more. His new hideout was sandwiched between some of the finest restaurants in the city, and they knew where to send their leftovers, if they knew what was good for them. 

“Uh, boss…” Andre gulped. “Th-that Kingcake was for the whole gang, to celebrate…”

“And?” Croc snarled, before belching out the baby figurine hidden inside the cake. He shifted his weight, legs thicker than most men’s waists and too large to fit on the couch spilled over the side along with a quarter of his gut. “Ya’ll wanna end up like Raphael, keep running your mouth. Otherwise, go get me some gumbo. We’re gonna be celebrating soon enough, alright.”

There was a knock to announce Beau and Alphonse’s return, and the sound of dragging a heavy weight. The two came in, throwing down a man that had been bound and gagged, a hood over his head. 

“Ahh, finally.” Croc smiled toothily, hefting his titanic weight, belly bouncing from the sudden movement. Slow, ponderous steps brought him closer to his latest victim. He had to lean over his own chins and puffed up, swollen chest to see past his own bulk, his belly close to dragging on the floor as he bent forward. He snatched off the hood. “The billionaire and playboy, Bruce Wayne!” Chuckling deeply, his meaty fingers wrapped around the back of Bruce’s face, jerking him up as the reptile licked his lips, his belly pressing up against the billionaire. “Ya’ll ever heard of the phrase, ‘eat the rich,’ Wayne? Well… let’s hope ya’ll got someone to send over a couple hundred million dollars, or we’re gonna find out what that looks like literally.”