"Yes, I was born here, over 50 years ago I guess? I can't quite remember. My parents left me in a garbage can and I was picked up by a dockworker."
"I was quite fortunate, wasn't I? My dad was very capable, enough to support me. Even though he was eventually killed, I managed to grow up just fine..."
In the hospital ward, a slightly obese mob boss leaned against the wall, puffing on a cigar, reminiscing, "You look pretty young, so you wouldn't have experienced that era. It was truly epic, don't you think my term is accurate?"
"That's right, as you all know, I'm a newcomer. Not just to this hospital, but to wielding guns and whips," Bruce ambiguously stated. However, the others chuckled, "Then you're quite seasoned. Many rookies, right after killing their own boss, managed to offend everyone here."
"I know, the more friends, the more paths." Bruce also lit a cigar, squinting as he took a puff, saying, "In fact, I am worried about how to proceed."
"Worried? Aren't these days far better than they used to be?" said another, younger mob boss, "It's much better than ten years ago. I missed those good times. I was shot twice for fighting over a dock and still feel the pain to this day..."
"You're quite lucky." The fat boss chimed in, "When I first came to Gotham, nobody would tell you the rules. The city was in such chaos, it was a complete mess."
"Oh, yes." He started again, looking at Bruce, "Kid, did you kill your elder to get your position? Or did you snatch it from someone else?"
"I don't have any elders." Bruce shrugged, "I just couldn't stand the boss of my district. I lied, claiming I was an out-of-town businessman, pulled out a gun and killed him. Luckily, the guy was rotten at the core, and he was skimming his workers' wages. Everyone had put up with him for too long already; I just seized the opportunity."
The fat boss raised an eyebrow, "You do have some guts, daring to shoot directly. But this is good too, you're so young, if you'd killed your own father or uncle, that would be troublesome."
"What do you mean?" Bruce asked.
The fat boss waved his hand, "If you don't have any foundation and rely solely on your own, people tend to be more forgiving. But if you were brought into the circle by your father or uncle, any slight mishap and everyone will see you as unreliable and won't want to do business with you."
Bruce frowned, "Why would having no foundation result in more leniency?"
The younger boss from the other side said, "Don't you know? If you've never learned the rules from your elders, everyone sees you as a country bumpkin. Making occasional mistakes isn't a big deal, I've been there too."
"But if you were born into a gangster family, learning the rules from your parents everyday and watching how they operate, and still make mistakes, wouldn't that just show that you're stupid?"
Bruce had not expected this distinction, he said, "But if I make a fool of myself, won't they just mock me all the same?"
"It doesn't matter, I've been mocked too." The younger boss lit a cigar, "As long as you don't commit fundamental errors, being laughed at a bit is not a big deal."
"After all, you're only making mistakes because you haven't learned. But if you've been learning for years and still can't get it right, who would want to do business with an idiot who struggles to understand even the most basic etiquette?"
Bruce nodded. The fat boss began speaking again, "Speaking of which, I just thought of my daughter. Thank heavens she doesn't have any whims about free love, please don't mention it to me and certainly don't set your sights on businessmen's sons, those playboys are not worth a dime…"
The fat boss took a puff of cigar, "I originally wanted to send her to a church school, but my wife told me she won't learn anything there, she won't even know how to reply to an invitation and that'd make us the laughing stock."
"Church school? It should be nice, right?" Bruce said, "Especially that famous girls' school in the city."
The fat boss dismissively waved his hand, "It's good, but look at what they teach. They teach my daughter to read the Bible, sew, arrange flowers, draw paintings, but the question is, she's supposed to marry into the Lawrence family in the future."
"She will become Mrs. Little Lawrence, the matron of the Lawrence family. What's the use of knowing these things? Match Malone...is that what you're called?"
"I ask you, if you intend to visit the Lawerence Family, write a letter of invitation and put it in their mailbox. At this moment, wouldn't you expect a reply from them?"
Bruce nodded and said, "Of course."
"But if their matron is a stupid girl who doesn't even know who you are and what kind of person you are, how can you expect a suitable reply from her?"
The fat boss exhaled a cloud of smoke, "The Lawerence Family is far stronger than you. When a small fry like you want to pay them a visit, their response certainly can't be too enthusiastic, otherwise they wouldn't know how to respond to families of equal status."
"But if the terms of agreement are too cold, you might mistake it as a rejection. In order to grasp this nuance, besides the wording on the letter of reply, you have to consider the handwriting, the texture of the letter, and the time of reply. If they can't handle these well, won't that offend people?"
Bruce thought for a moment, realizing it was true, there were myriad intricate rules not just in the mob but even in the upper-class gatherings of Gotham.
It may be a bit easier for men, but for the ladies and young misses, every necklace, every hairpiece could have hundreds of proprieties to consider.
Who wore the latest fashion, who stuck to old styles, who gifted whose fan, which direction to wear one's hat, all were painstaking considerations. Who recently got engaged, who had a newborn, what shifts happened in which family, all could be deduced from the subtleties of their daily lives.
The reason Bruce didn't find it daunting was because his guise, Bruce Wayne, was an incredibly careless playboy. He could get away with throwing tantrums at parties, he could finish his workouts and come in his gym clothes to grand mansions. The waiters and managers would just smile and accommodate him.
As for invitations, he never even looked at them, and Alfred wouldn't bother telling him. Alfred would only mention something like, "The so-and-so family invited you, would you like to attend?" If Bruce declined, Alfred wouldn't bring up how the invitation was worded.
Simply put, Bruce's parents, butler, and his alter ego had shielded him from these obscure conventions. No one in Gotham dared to cross him, why would he need to follow any rules?
Yet now, thinking from the perspective of someone without the status of the Wayne family, without diligent Alfred, and without the guise of Bruce Wayne, if he were only a regular tycoon trying to fit into Gotham's circles, it'd force him to exert a lot of energy.
Forget how to write RSVPs and invitations. He'd have to carefully consider who to send, what to wear, even how to walk. Even if Batman operated 48 hours a day, it'd potentially drive him to exhaustion.
Now Bruce understood the question Shiller asked. When he suggested that Shiller experience life in the slums with him, Shiller asked him, "Do you really think living in the slums is more challenging than in high society?"
What Shiller meant was, in the slums, your relatives, friends, siblings, and coworkers were your aides, but in high society, these same people could be a nuisance.
A slight misstep could set tongues wagging behind your back, and if the rumors spread, it would affect your reputation and thereby your business.
For someone like Bruce, whose IQ was high but EQ was low, living in the slums could arguably be easier. As long as he applied his intellect, it could yield significant original capital, allowing him to comfortably thrive in such an environment.
But when dealing with the covert battles of high society, Bruce's emotional perceptiveness and expression weren't enough to discern the undercurrents or predict people's psychology optimally.
Batman had psychological issues, which wouldn't matter in the slums, but high society was different. Unless you had a high enough status, any outrageous behaviour could exclude you from their circles permanently.
While Bruce was thinking, a young mob boss spoke up: "My son is only three years old. When he turns five, I plan to introduce him to his uncles, they're both businessmen in shipping. And, when he's old enough for elementary school, I want him to study in the community school..."
Just then the Fat Boss clicked his tongue, "You really shouldn't, Dale. For old times' sake, I advise you not to send him to school, for his own good."
The mob boss called Dale frowned and asked, "Why? In my community, many people send their children to school."
"That's because you insisted on buying a house in the South District, living with those wealthy businessmen. Of course, they'd send their kids to school, but you can't do the same."
"Why?" asked Dale.
The Fat Boss shook his head, "Think about it, if he mingles with the children of those rich businessmen at community school, could he do business with them as an adult?"
"You should hire a private tutor for your kid, preferably someone from the Godfather's generation, teach him about manners and rules. Then let your wife take him to salons and afternoon tea parties, make him familiar with his aunts, and play with their kids. That's the dignified way to do it."
The Fat Boss sighed, "What's worse, if your kid grows up with those tycoons' children, and wants to attend middle school and college like them, what if he gets accepted in a college far away? Are you willing to abandon your family business?"
"In Gotham, even in four months, let alone four years, dozens of families would be at each other's throats. He would return like a sacrificial lamb, not knowing nor understanding anything, oblivious to the political landscape and unfamiliar with the players. How would he survive in Gotham?"
Dale thought for a moment before nodding, "Indeed, I said we shouldn't listen to Alina. She insists our kid should go to college. As far as I see it, students from Gotham University aren't all that impressive. Throw them into the mob for a few days, they'd probably end up losing their lives."
Waving his cigar-holding hand, the Fat Boss said, "I told you when you got married, you didn't choose wisely. Your wife is a Cambridge graduate, her handwriting is one of a kind, not matched by anyone amongst the Twelve Families."
"But this is what you get for marrying a foreigner, always blabbing about education, and reading."
"But you've to consider where you are. You read tons of books, but come back not knowing how to handle a gun. Eventually, you'll end up meeting God while hugging your books."