Cleaning up the city

The fog hung heavy over Gotham. It was cold out, and my heavy breathing only added to the eerie haze. As I sat on a gargoyle, scanning the street 300 feet below, I knew that this was my city. Sure, the gangsters and drug pushers and thieves might have their momentary victories, but their ill-gotten gains would only be temporary. They could run from me. They could hide from me. But they could no more escape justice than I could escape my monthly bathtime.