Chapter 97: The Green Dream

Green.

All of Gotham had turned into a patch of green.

This was Gordon's first impression after opening the door.

The streets were bustling with people wearing bright green scarves, three-leaf shamrock-shaped green headpieces, and green hats (Irish culture differs slightly from ours; think of it as changing into new clothes for the Spring Festival), with green paint smeared even on their faces.

As far as Gordon could see, every place was packed tight with a sea of green-clad people; they sang and danced, while cheerful violin, drum, and trumpet sounds nearly echoed through the entire district.

"It would be wonderful if, without gang shootouts and holiday killers, Gotham's St. Patrick's Day could be like this."

Thinking this, Gordon couldn't help but smile; the green crowd was too enthusiastic, the joyful music too loud, and the festive atmosphere too intense; even he, who frowned all day long, found himself happy along with them.

Wait, holiday killers...

Realizing this, Gordon woke up as if from a dream; St. Patrick's Day had clearly already passed, yet the scene before his eyes was...

"Gordon, why is the street so noisy... what is going on!"

His wife Barbara, holding their child, walked to the door; seeing the green crowd on the road, she exclaimed in surprise, "I thought St. Patrick's Day was over."

"I thought so too—"

"What are you still waiting for? The festival has arrived!"

A small green leprechaun holding a wooden magic wand wobbled out from the crowd, gently waving the wand to transform Gordon and Barbara's clothes into green suits and bowler hats.

A cane also appeared in Gordon's hand.

"To be honest, I'm slightly allergic to this green outfit and this bowler hat..." Commissioner Gordon muttered instinctively, "And this cane reminds me of a very headache-inducing fellow."

The leprechaun, quite human-like, waved the wand again; Gordon's clothes transformed into a green western leather jacket, jeans, a cowboy hat, and riding boots.

In his hand was now a green water gun shaped like a revolver.

"Oh, you look so cool."

"Thanks, Barbara, but I'm still not quite clear on what exactly happened overnight—"

"Hey, Commissioner Gordon!"

"Harvey? How did you end up looking like this?"

Harvey Dent, wearing a green trench coat and a pointed hat, appeared before the two pulling Gilda, who was dressed in a long green skirt; his face, inevitably infected by the atmosphere, showed a somewhat relaxed expression: "I don't know either, but I pinched myself and it didn't hurt, so this must be a dream."

"A dream?"

"Why think so much about it?"

Barbara took Gordon's hand: "Since it's a dream, why not finish celebrating this St. Patrick's Day before we wake up?"

Little Gordon, whose hair had been dyed green, was still in his cradle, yet at this moment he floated behind Barbara, nodding in agreement.

"There must be something wrong with this world."

Commissioner Gordon stared dumbfounded at the little Gordon floating in mid-air, and then was pulled into the surge of people.

There were many, many people in the parade, stretching from one end of the district to the other; in fact, all of Gotham had already been filled with the jubilant crowd.

Looking down from the Brown Bridge and the Triple Gate Bridge, even the seawater surrounding Gotham had turned green.

The river flowing through the city bubbled, turning into a river of green beer; building materials had become green chocolate and candy, break off a piece and you could taste it; the clouds in the sky were green cakes, occasionally falling down to smash into the crowd, yet people felt no pain and suffered no injuries; the fountains in the square sprayed green ice cream, now surrounded by a group of gluttonous children waiting for the leprechauns to distribute their shares.

Of course, some people were not infected by the festive atmosphere—Carmine Falcone woke up today to find his gold watch had turned into a green children's watch, and now even his complexion was green.

"Knock, knock, knock."

A sudden knocking sound came from the bedroom door of the Godfather, which struck him as quite strange; within three minutes of waking, he had judged that he was in a dream, none of his men were in the apartment, and he didn't know where they had gone; at such a time, who could be knocking on the door?

"Come in."

"Happy holidays, Father."

A familiar voice sounded from behind; Falcone turned his head in disbelief, and the figure appearing at the doorway was truly that youngest son he had longed for day and night, long since laid to rest in the cemetery: Alberto.

"Alberto, my Alberto, how did you appear here—"

"Father, what are you talking about?"

A puzzled expression appeared on Alberto's face: "Today is St. Patrick's Day; you told me to come over and celebrate with you—but why is there not a single person in your apartment? This is very dangerous."

Falcone's mouth hung half-open, his lips trembling twice; he posed no question and gave no answer, merely saying, "Alberto, today is St. Patrick's Day."

"Accompany me to the streets to celebrate the festival."

Alberto was somewhat confused, yet he still nodded; that manner was exactly the same as the obedient child from Falcone's memories of decades past, and this simple reply made Falcone's eyes feel slightly sour.

He said, "Yes, Father."

"Happy holidays, Heidi."

"Richard?"

The woman wandering alone on the street watched her deceased lover appear before her eyes once more; surprised, she reached out to cover her mouth, and immediately, her eyes filled with tears.

"Heidi, you should be a bit happier during the holidays."

"Damn! What the hell kind of broken dream is this!"

Practicing with her gun in the basement, Carla Viti cursed profusely; she didn't know why she was having this damned dream, but she was extremely dissatisfied that her pistol had turned into a squirt gun that only shot green cream.

"Mom, why aren't you going out to the street?"

When Johnny Viti appeared before her, Carla Viti nearly jumped up; she hugged her son and burst into loud wails.

Scenes like this unfolded everywhere in Gotham; the five members of the Irish Gang were holding a concert in the central square of Gotham, with the jubilant crowd cheering and surrounding them, yet few probably knew the dream they had when they left their hometown—to form their own band and become world-famous superstars.

Carlo passed by Quirk's home and found him inside a bright little house making a cake for his grandmother.

Brown, along with his wife and daughter, was eating a meal at home; the table was laden with delicacies, an amount that would absolutely leave no one hungry.

Smith was taking a walk in the park with her mother; her complexion looked so good, the weakness and pale color left by years of selling blood had vanished.

Du Ke sat spiritedly in his office; even though it was a holiday, he was still processing work documents.

Wilson was eating pizza and singing; Martin, carrying luggage, bought a ticket to Star City at the station; Thomas was having a water fight with his parents using water guns; Albert and his wife embraced, sobbing uncontrollably...

In the green dream, Gotham once again had a green St. Patrick's Day.

(End of this chapter)