[The screen lights up--though only a little. An exceptionally tall man, wearing a golden pirate's hook on his left arm, sat up on a large crate in the middle of the industrial district. He kept a cigar between his teeth, seemingly uninterested in the little device that was filming him.

Crocodile turned to face it, his expression somewhat hidden by the fur lining of his coat. Still, he looked bored whether or not he actually was. Crocodile's voice came out in a slow, methodical and extremely deep drawl.]

Is this place supposed to be something worthy of protection? [He lied--] Even if I'm a Warlord, whoever said I was the right person to pick?

Now--I've looked around. Where are the blackmailers that brought us here?