Chapter Text
Kitten Whiskers… Boo-Boo Bear… Love Bunch...? Which was it? He couldn’t keep track. Which of his investors would be dropping by? Crocodile opened up the closet and rummaged through the photos, looking for the correct one. Each picture, nicely framed, was labeled and neatly organized into their own categories. Yes, there it was. Tucked into the back corner sat an aged photo of one of his ladies, Crocodile’s Lady Luck. She was, like the picture, aged. Not like a fine wine, no—he saw her more as the bottle of two buck chuck left in a college girl’s dorm room.
Either way, beautiful or not, Lady Luck came with what Crocodile needed dearly: money. Each and every visit from his golden girl ensured that he’d have the money needed to—well, live and keep an, albeit leaking, roof over his head. The last production he’d put on had left him further in financial ruins, leaving the man practically penniless. He was a sham. Nothing more than a Broadway flop.
And it was frustrating. At one point, Crocodile was highly regarded. He’d been successful, creating hit after hit. Anything he’d touched became a smashing success. It was an honor to work with the one and only: Sir Crocodile. That all seemed to have crashed and burned instantaneously. Like a spit-slicked finger had suddenly pinched his wick, crushing any further dreams he had. Now he got by solely by swindling elderly women (and some men; Crocodile didn’t discriminate) out of their social security checks and life savings. Honestly, it was embarrassing. But Crocodile would do what he had to do in order to keep up appearances.
“…-dile?”
“Crocodile...?” In a hurry, he slammed the cabinet door shut, photos surely rattling around and falling over inside. She was early. They were appointed to play at 12, and it was only a quarter till. He rushed over to the mirror and gave himself a quick look over. His black hair, bordering on a salt and pepper tone, was slicked back. The usual two strands lay limp on his forehead. He dressed to impress today; his wrinkled, unironed dress shirt and slacks were sure to have any menopausal woman swooning. They were good to go.
“Ooh luck be a lady ~,” he purred, opening the door. “Apologies for keeping you waiting, my Cara.” Crocodile extended a hand outwards for Lady Luck to take, her pruned fingers grasping at his, yanking him closer.
“I want to play today, Croco, let me play with you.” She grabbed a hold of his suit jacket, pressing herself against his torso. “What game shall we play today? Hm… ~?” Suddenly, she let go of Crocodile and headed into the office, propping herself up on the desk. She lifted a leg and pointed to the younger male with a dainty foot. “Meow meow, where is that handsome Tom cat?”
He looked over at her, grinding his teeth in annoyance. “We don’t have time to play; I have too many appointments today,” Crocodile tried explaining, making a show of checking his wristwatch as a kind way to say, ‘chop chop, lady, I’m on a tight schedule’. His next appointment would be here any minute; he needed to get the money and get her out the door. “But do you have the checkee~? Papa needs the checkee~ to make more shows.” With a single stern look from the woman, his complaints crumbled, succumbing to her wishes. Crooking a finger, she beckoned the man closer, motioning to the space at her feet.
Crawling, on his hands and knees, Crocodile padded over, further trampling the last remaining pieces of self-respect. It’s for the money; do it for the money. "Mroww~,” he yowled, attempting to arch his back like a feline, but the sound of something cracking swiftly put an end to that.
Lady Luck’s shrill giggles needled at his eardrums as Crocodile raised himself up to his knees. Her hand smoothed over his hair, tucking pieces behind his ears. With another look at the time, he decided that his best course of action was to get this over with as soon as possible. A sleazy hand settled on the woman’s stocking-covered leg, but he was quickly reprimanded for the action. She smacked him over the head with the back of her hand, causing Crocodile to jerk backwards, yowling like a wounded animal.
“Ah ah ah, don’t get handsy.” She rose from the desk, switching over to the couch to lounge against it. Again, tail tucked between his legs, Crocodile pawed towards her. Lady Luck patted her lap and said, “Come on up, let’s play chauffeur and the Contessa.” After hesitating for a moment, being only spurred on by a raise of her eyebrow, Crocodile got off the ground and lowered his large frame down onto her frail legs.
The staircase seemed to be falling apart at its bolts; it shook and rattled as Buggy ascended up to the fourth floor. His gloved hand held onto the railing for dear life; the other, sweat-soaked, gripped onto his briefcase’s handle. Going out for meetings wasn’t ideal for him. He either got stuck with stingy penny pinchers or rich, snobby folk, and he honestly didn’t know which were worse. Neither were good company, which caused his nerves to skyrocket.
Maybe he shouldn’t have gone into accounting. A less stressful career would’ve been ideal, like being a librarian, or something in the arts. Or he could’ve gone with a job that he was actually passionate about. But Buggy had already wasted 10 years in this field; his life was thrown away, and he spent hundreds of hours counting others' money while barely earning any of his own.
He approached the door and politely knocked, rapping his knuckles against its shutters. “Hello? Crocodile, sir? It’s me; I’m here to do your books.” No one came to the door, but he could make out a voice—two voices, actually. Meandering out in the hallway wasn’t possible. He was on a tight schedule and had to get back to the office by 1:00. On the contrary, barging in would be rude, and might set them off on bad terms. Buggy always tried to make good first impressions with his clients.
He weighed his options: either disappoint his boss… or seem rude. It was a hard choice. Flipping a coin could help, but his pockets were laid bare. The verbal assault his boss would set upon him was much worse than anything a client could do. So, that was that.
Buggy grabbed the doorknob and slipped inside. As soon as he’d entered the office, it'd become apparent that his decision was obviously the wrong one. He was met with damp, decrepit decor, which fell out of style three decades ago, along with tangled legs and the wet sounds of lips smacking…—OH!
“My apologies for interrupting madame and sir!” he profusely apologized, bowing his head to stop any further peeking. The gears were still turning in his head, working overtime to figure out what he’d just been witness to. His client, perched in some elderly woman’s lap with his shirt half undone, with her hand slipped past the fabric, doing who knows what. Oh, what a sight! There weren’t enough zeros in his paycheck to compensate for this.
The sound of clothes being adjusted, buttons redone, and murmured goodbyes told Buggy that he dropped by in the middle of something—something odd and perverse, that is. “I’ll call you later, Mio Tesoro," was muttered by the woman before she got off the couch and fixed her skirt. Buggy stepped out of the way so she could leave.
With a heavy sigh, the man slammed the door shut behind her, before stepping over to Buggy. He crowded the accountant against it. Though he appeared disheveled, the man was still intimidating. The look on his face seemed angry, but the way his teeth clenched down on his lip, it looked more like a frazzled expression. Clearly, Buggy’s timely appearance had caught him off guard. A thin layer of sweat painted his face, beads ran down to soil his collar.
“… Rough day, huh?”
“Would it have costed you an ounce of courtesy to knock?!” the man shouted as he wiped his face off. "Anyway... Who are you?! What do you want with me?” Spit splattered against Buggy’s cheek as he was yelled at.
He held his hands up in defense. “An accountant! I’m your accountant; you hired me to count your books!” Buggy frantically tried to explain, “I was sent from Marie Jois!” He rattled his briefcase to distract him and stop the man from ripping out his throat.
“An accountant...?”
“Yes! And I’m sorry for catching you with the old lady; please don’t hurt me," Buggy pleaded. He watched as the color drained from his client’s face and was then let go, finally given some air to breathe after being stuck in a cloud of cheap cologne. “You’re Crocodile, right?”
The man nodded as he went to the couch. He dropped onto the plush chair, the springs groaning at the sudden weight. "...Caught you with the old lady,” he mocked, a venom in his voice. “Yes, that’s right, I’m him. Are you here to laugh at me? Mock me for my failed career? Further rub the soot in my face? If so, then you can leave.”
“No? I said I was here to do your books. You called for me to come down here today, Sir?”
Crocodile propped an arm up on the couch’s side, resting his head against the blunt side of his hooked hand. “Fine then… do the books, do the books,” he repeated, waving him off with his still intact hand. Buggy got mixed signals from him. One moment he was holding him against the wall, breathing down his neck with obvious hatred, and the next he was a pathetic, sopping wet, shell of a man. Buggy couldn’t help but feel… bad for him. Even if he’d done nothing but berate him so far.
Living in this city, it was a rare occurrence for someone to not have at least heard of Crocodile. It should make him feel special to have the honor of working for the man, but in reality, this was just a damper on his already bad day.
Buggy took purchase at the desk, placing his case on its scratched surface. After popping the buckles, the top half felt open and released an array of papers. “Are these your receipts on the table?” he questioned as he placed his reading glasses on the bridge of his red nose.
“Mhmmm,” was lazily hummed in return.
Sloppily left on the desk was a stack of loose papers, financial records and other important things that should have been tucked somewhere safe. Buggy didn’t voice his complaints, knowing they’d either fall upon deaf ears or be the cause of him getting clobbered. For the time being, he worked in silence. Only the sound of his pen scritching over the paper and the occasional sigh from his client were heard. It was calm; for the first time in the last twenty-four hours, Buggy could let his guard down. Just as he’d begun to relax, letting the mindless task of tallying numbers take over, the thick, peppery smog of tobacco being lit assaulted his nostrils. The repugnant odor made his lungs sizzle.
With a click of the lighters cap, he lit the tail end of his cigar, causing a deep sigh to escape his lips, allowing him to melt against the couch. Crocodile watched with heavy eyes as the accountant nervously glanced over at him, words obviously laying at the tip of his tongue, before quickly looking away. He found this man comical, like a breath of fresh air after too long in a damp, musty attic. In this business, the only people he ever got to spend time with were writers, directors, the occasional crew member, and not to mention his ever so eager funders.
The accountant cleared his throat, stifling a cough. Crocodile thought nothing of it. His office (and living space) were in need of a good dusting. But after the cleaning lady quit for some ridiculous reason, the living space was rarely cleaned. It turns out—to his dismay—you can’t pay a maid with discounted show tickets.
He let his eyes close; a nap would do him good, before his 2:30 came knocking by. Then the man cleared his throat again, this time louder—obnoxiously louder. “What is it you need, clown? You’re obviously begging for my attention,” Crocodile barked, shooting a glare over at him. The sniveling excuse for a man didn’t say anything at first; his mouth pursed shut as if sucking on a lemon slice. “Go on, spit it out already!”
“… We have a problem, sir,” he said, his voice hushed and distant. “A big problem; there’s something wrong with these numbers.”
Crocodile let out an aggravated groan. He replied, “Is that all? Just recount, and I’m sure you’ll see that there’s no mistake. Now get on with it.” He hoped that was it—that the man would sort the issue out himself and leave him be.
But the man opened his red-painted mouth again. “I’ve recounted, re-tallied, and done the math in five different ways, but each result is the same!” Crocodile only blankly stared back at him, uninterested in whatever pish-posh he had to say. “Meaning your numbers don’t match up!”
“I spent a few hours in the dance halls of Dressrosa, simply move some numbers around.” The scowl he got from the accountant was sour, a dissatisfied look that told him that his solution wasn’t good enough.
“That’s fraud… sir, I can’t do that; it’s unlawful,” the blue-haired man protested. “And this isn’t a something to take so lightly. The numbers for your last play are wrong.”
Crocodile shuffled over to the desk, shadowing the other as he looked down at the mess of papers. “Hmm? Where does it say that?” He voiced, setting a hand down on the other’s shoulder, “Point it out for me.” The bank statement said it clear as day, and he wasn’t an idiot. But hearing the man try to stumble over his words had some humorous charm to it.
“Well here, look.” He pointed out the exact line and craned his neck to look up at him. Crocodile only hummed and motioned for him to continue. “Well, you raised more than you needed, you see. You raised $70,000, when the play only costed a mere $65,000. Is that making sense?”
Crocodile straightened up and glared down at him. “And what’s the issue with that? As I said, I spent the money elsewhere. Let me tell you something. What's your name?”
“Buggy, sir.”
“Listen, Buggy, I want you to just move some decimals around for me, alright? I’m not asking much here. Counts in your name, after all.” He gave him a heavy thump on the shoulder and almost knocked the poor guy out of his seat, before he leaned down to be at eye level. His breath ghosted across the accountant’s face as he spoke directly to him. “Can you do that for me?”
And really, who was Buggy to deny such a man? His client had asked so nicely. Crocodile had a certain way of getting what he wanted. In the end, after threatening or begging for it, he got it. In any moment, he was willing to drop to his knees and plead, but thankfully, this moment didn’t call for that. “Of course, it’ll be patched up in a moment. I apologize,” Buggy murmured, dropping his head away from him. “5,000 isn’t that much; I can just... I can find some things to move around.”
Was it fear that made him want to comply with the man’s wishes? Maybe a sense of duty? (Lust possibly?) He got right onto it, already crunching away at the little calculator he’d brought with him. Crocodile went back to his seat and lifted his feet to prop up against the coffee table. Finally, he could get back to finishing up his cigar. After such a stressful day it’d been so far, a lung full of nicotine was just what the doctor had ordered. That bitter gnarl it had quelled any worries. What did the rest of the day bring? At the current moment, he didn’t care.
“Ohhh, how interesting,” the accountant muttered in delight. Why did he sound so happy? Craning his neck, Crocodile tried to get a look at what he was doing, but all that was visible were his gloved fingers tracing down the paper. “Heh heh heh, amazing.” Buggy chuckled under his breath; his shoulders bounced with a laugh. “Absolutely amazing.” He wasn’t sure what the clown was getting all worked up about, but it could be assumed that it wasn’t important. So long as the numbers were fixed, the accountant could giggle all he wanted.
For a brief fleeting moment, the room went silent, until Buggy seemed to have finally reached his realization. Quietly, as if he didn’t want the other to hear, he murmured, "Yes, yes, under the right circumstances, someone could make more with a flop, rather than a hit.”
What was that? “Pardon?” Crocodile asked, which startled Buggy and caused him to flinch. “What was that you said?”
Buggy waved his hand dismissively and said, “No, it was nothing; I was just talking to myself over here. Don’t mind me.”
But Crocodile knew better. He’d heard exactly what he’d said, and it sounded like he’d struck gold. “Don’t kid yourself; I heard something. Say it a bit louder for me. It sounded interesting." Before Buggy could open his mouth, Crocodile was on him, back at his side, and waiting for an explanation. If what he’d overheard were true, this could be his lucky break!
“What was it that I said?”
“That a producer could make more with a flop than a hit!” he recited, hitting his large hook against the table's surface. “Tell me how! Enlighten me!”
After swallowing dryly, Buggy scrambled to gather his thoughts. "W-Well... I was saying that you could make more with a flop than with a hit. It’s simply a matter of creative accounting, sir.” Crocodile glared; he seemed to think that was enough, but it didn’t even begin to explain it.
“Go on, continue,” Crocodile urged.
With a cough, Buggy did continue, "Well, let’s assume you’re a dishonest man for a second.”
“Assume away.”
“You would just need to raise more money than you needed. And, while on a smaller scale, you already did this. But it would be possible to raise even more than that. And if the show does horribly, no one will want to pay you back!” Buggy exclaimed, dropping his pen and raising his arms to the sky, “Instead of $5,000, you could raise $10,000, or even $15,000!!”
Crocodile shot up so fast that the entire desk almost came tumbling down. “That’s it! You’re a genius, Buggy, a genius! That’s what we’ll do!” He grabbed the man’s shoulders and yanked him off the chair. “A million, we’ll raise a million! The sky’s our limit!” He shook Buggy around like a rag doll to further emphasize his point.
Wait-. This isn’t what Buggy was trying to say! All he’d meant to do was just explain how someone could HYPOTHETICALLY commit fraud! He wasn’t giving explicit instructions! Oh, no... "Wait, wait, wait, that’s not what we’re going to do. That’s a crime! And if you get caught, you’ll go to prison!” he tried explaining.
“I’ll go to prison? No, no, if things go south, then we’ll go to prison. Together.” Crocodile seemed so sure of himself. His mouth was curled into a coy smirk, eyes narrowing with a sick display of courage. Buggy had seen him minutes ago, wallowing in self-pity. How could he switch so quickly? Was it all just showy bravado? Or did Crocodile really believe that this could work?
“No, listen to me; I won’t go to jail for you! Even if it were a guaranteed success, the answer would still be no! I’m not doing this!”
His denial seemed to irk the man. Crocodile’s hold went ridged, turning into a tight grasp at his shoulders. “What do you mean we’re not doing this? But it was your idea, clown?” he stated in a growl, his eyes narrowed down at the man.
Shit. He’d messed up. "I-... I uhm- I said I wouldn't help you. I have a job already; I don’t need to do something like this for money! It’d be throwing my life away!” Buggy stammered, anxiety increasing by the second. He was in danger. His eyes squeezed shut. If their previous interactions meant anything, then Buggy should assume the producer wouldn’t let this refusal slide. Would he be hit? Banged over the head with that scary-looking hook? Strangled with his large, bejeweled hand?!
Buggy heard a thump as something dropped to the floor underneath him. He cracked one eye open and looked downwards to see what had fallen. On the ground sat the man he’d been cowering from, his head hanging low on his shoulders, looking beaten and defeated.
“You have to reconsider, Buggy; you have to understand… this is my only hope,” he pleaded, staring up at him through messy strands of hair. “At this point, I have nothing to lose, yet nothing else to gain in this life. So please, reconsider this.” Crocodile, the Sir Crocodile, was on his knees, begging for Buggy’s help.
“… And what if I were to agree? What would I get?” Buggy couldn’t believe he was actually feeding into this now. All it’d taken was a pretty man on his knees with a sad look on his face. God, he was a pathetic man, even more so than the one currently on the floor. “What do I get out of this?”
For a moment there, Crocodile seemed surprised that Buggy was giving him a second thought. “Money, of course, a percent of whatever we get in the end.”
Well, that was vague. “I want half, at least, and maybe then I’ll reconsider. And get up, please. There’s no need to grovel. We can talk this over civilly, if you’d allow it.” Slowly, Crocodile raised himself off the ground. He brought a hand up and wiped his face off. Surely he hadn’t been crying?
“Yes, okay, we can discuss this further. And then you’ll give me your verdict?” Crocodile asked after pulling himself together, "Okay, how does lunch sound? We can talk about it over a meal. Does that work for you?” He seemed genuinely interested in talking this over. And with lunch included? He couldn’t bring himself to refuse the offer.
Sighing, Buggy took a moment before nodding, feeling a little defeated himself, “Yeah, lunch works for me.”