Once upon a time there was a little boy named Oswald. He was a brilliant little boy whose mother loved him deeply.
He did not have many friends and was not popular with the other kids at school. One should think that he would be treated with respect at such a privileged school, but no, things had changed. The institution was filled with children of the nouveau riche, who are quite incapable of true class, and Oswald was one of the last true aristocrats.
Blue blood should be shown respect, but instead the other children bullied him. Jeered, taunted, beat and haunted. But the little boy did not falter.
Do you know why this is, angel? Because the brave little boy was a Cobblepot. And Cobblepots never give up.
The nasty little children scorned him for many reasons, completely overlooking his intelligence and charming personality. He was short and not very slim, with poor eye-sight and ,most importantly, he knew how to speak proper.
But the real reason, the one that lay at the root of the problem, was simple. They picked on him simply because he was of a higher station in life. And as everyone knows, lower-class children are disgusting little creatures that thrive on the suffering of others and reflect the brutish and uneducated manners of their parents. They simply went mad of envy when confronted by a true blue blood.
The brave little boy did not understand this, however. He assumed they looked down their filthy noses at him because of his garments. Especially the umbrella he carried always and always.
The little boy and his mother would go through the same routine every morning. He would attempt to cave in to the ignorant little brats, by asking permission to leave the umbrella and dress like a peasant.
"But mother, there is nary a cloud in the sky," the little boy would say, a petulant pout on his face.
So very similar to his father's last words, God bless his soul. She would mention the little boy's father's demise not five years earlier and make him promise that this little Cobblepot would never succumb to pneumonia. She would give him a peck on the cheek and he would obey, for mother knows best, yes she does.
The lack of friends did not matter, for Oswald had more than enough toys and the only person he really needed was Mother, who loved him more than any other mothers loved their children. For they did not have such wonderful children as Mother did, no they did not.
The little boy would grow up to be an important man, a rich and powerful man. His peers could jeer and taunt all they wanted, but it would simply glance off him, for he was now far above them, mother's angel finally where he belonged: Among the clouds of high-society.
And so, angel, the story ends. But what tells this story apart from other bed-time stories is that this one's true.
When you grow older, the cruel little children will still be uneducated brutes, but you will be a great man. You will restore the family fortune your father, God bless his soul, so shamelessly squandered. You will become the envy of all these lesser folk that now torment you.
Yes, angel, your future is bright. But now you must sleep, to prepare for a bright tomorrow and a brighter future. Goodnight, darling.
Today, Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot has indeed restored the family fortune. And even if he is not openly respected, he is still the envy of lesser men.
He is still not accepted by society, but that is alright. Although mother is gone, he still has his toys, even if they are no longer innocent.
AN: Reviews would be very much appreciated. Does mum's bedtime story narrative work? Does this fit the greatest and most colorful mob boss of Gotham? Tell me, tell me.