---
Chapter 4: The Gathering of Clowns
The room smelled like rot and mildew. A single bulb swung from the ceiling, humming like a drunk fly. Joker sat slouched in a wooden chair that creaked whenever he shifted, long legs stretched out, purple socks showing through a pair of shoes that had seen better days. On the floor beside him were scattered newspapers — folded, wrinkled, stained with old coffee. Headlines screamed at him:
"Maroni Family Expands Territory."
"Police Crack Down on East End Smuggling."
"Mob Violence Leaves Three Dead in Alley Shootout."
Joker smirked, brushing a lock of greasy green hair out of his eyes. The city was noisy, violent, greedy. But it was also… predictable. Every article read the same. A war for money, for turf, for reputation. Mobsters chasing numbers like accountants with guns.
"Boring," Joker muttered, flicking ash from a cigarette into the air. "This city's one big funeral, and everyone forgot to laugh."
He tapped his temple, grinning wide enough to show yellowed teeth. "What we need is a joke. A big one. And every good joke needs a cast."
He pushed back the chair, letting it scrape across the concrete. He had a list scrawled in red marker on the wall — names, rumors, little notes. Not the best crooks in Gotham. No, no. The strangest. The ones who didn't fit. Misfits, broken toys. People who would understand chaos. People who would understand him.
---
The Muscle
The first was easy.
A nightclub on the Narrows, half-collapsed, windows boarded, but still open for business if you knew where to knock. The bass thudded through the floor, cheap whiskey stank in the air, and fights broke out as often as the jukebox broke down.
That's where Joker found him.
Grimm.
The man was built like a brick wall that learned how to walk. Six-four, shoulders wide enough to block a doorway. His nose was crooked from being broken too many times, and his hands looked like they could crush a man's skull without trying. Joker watched him from the bar as Grimm pinned another drunk against the wall, lifting him clean off his feet. The drunk's feet kicked, useless. Grimm's eyes burned with a kind of rage that wasn't about money or pride. Just… rage.
Joker slid off his stool, sauntering over like he owned the place. He clapped his hands slowly, grinning.
"Bravo! Beautiful performance. You know, most men punch. You — you choke. Very personal. Very… intimate."
Grimm dropped the drunk, who stumbled away coughing. He turned, towering over Joker. "Beat it, clown."
Joker tilted his head. "Oh, don't mind me. I'm just a talent scout. And you, big boy, you've got talent." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Tell me… don't you ever get tired of fighting for scraps? Throwing out drunks for pocket change?"
Grimm's jaw tightened.
"What if," Joker whispered, "I gave you a license to break anyone you want? Mobsters. Cops. Rich boys in suits. Anyone. No rules, no leash. Just you, me, and a little fun."
For a moment, Grimm just stared. Then he cracked a rare smile, a mean one. "What's the catch?"
Joker spread his hands. "Only one. You'll have to laugh while you do it."
That night, Grimm followed him out of the club.
---
The Driver
Next was trickier.
Rico wasn't muscle. He was small, wiry, twitchy — the kind of man who looked over his shoulder twice before crossing the street. But behind the wheel of a car, he was different. Smooth. Precise. Fast. He once drove a whole Maroni hit-squad out of a police chase and didn't scratch the paint.
Problem was, he owed the Maronis more than he could ever pay back. Which made him desperate. And desperation was Joker's favorite seasoning.
Joker found him in a dingy garage, half-lit, working under the hood of a busted sedan. Rico's hands shook even as he worked, sweat dripping onto the engine.
"Tick, tock, tick, tock," Joker sang, leaning against the doorframe. "That's your life, Rico. Just waiting for the Maronis to come and clip you. Bang. End of the road."
Rico flinched, pulling a wrench like it was a knife. "Who the hell are you?"
"The guy with your way out." Joker strolled closer, hands in his coat pockets. "I've seen you drive. Poetry in motion. Cops can't catch you. Mobsters can't pin you. But you? You're stuck under a hood, waiting to die. That's not how your story ends, Rico. Not if you take my offer."
Rico's eyes narrowed. "What offer?"
"You drive for me. Not just cars, no no no. You'll drive Gotham insane. Robberies, getaways, games. Imagine the roads as your stage, the sirens your music." Joker leaned in, smile sharp. "And most importantly — the Maronis won't touch you. Because I'll be touching them first."
Rico hesitated. He glanced at the shadows, as if Maroni hitmen might be hiding there. His voice was barely a whisper. "You can really keep them off me?"
Joker chuckled. "I can do better. I can make them laugh themselves to death before they even get near you."
Rico swallowed hard. Then he nodded.
---
The Wildcard
The last one was the most fun.
She called herself Minks. No one knew her real name. She used to do small-time stage shows in East Gotham — knife tricks, escape acts, vanishing illusions. Then she started using those tricks to rob jewelry stores and slice purses in crowded streets. The cops laughed at her until she slit a detective's cheek just for fun.
Now she was on the run, hiding in a rundown motel with cracked mirrors and cigarette burns in the carpet. Joker walked right in like he owned the place, whistling.
Minks sat cross-legged on the bed, flicking a knife between her fingers. She didn't look surprised to see him.
"You're either lost or stupid," she said.
"Stupid, definitely," Joker said, shutting the door behind him. "Lost? Never. I've been looking for you."
She twirled the knife, eyes sharp. "You with the cops?"
"Oh, please. Cops wear uniforms. I prefer something more… fashionable." He spread his arms, showing off the purple coat, the red shirt, the green hair. "See? Iconic."
Minks smirked. "So what do you want?"
"A partner," Joker said. "Someone who loves the spotlight. Someone who understands that crime isn't about money — it's about art. Drama. Laughter. And knives. Lots of knives."
He tossed a switchblade onto the bed. She caught it without blinking.
"You want me to join your circus?" she asked.
Joker leaned close, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Not a circus. A comedy show. Gotham is the audience. And we're going to make them laugh till they choke."
Minks grinned, spinning both knives now, one in each hand. "When do we start?"
---
Three days later, they gathered in the old comedy club Joker had claimed as his hideout. The stage lights flickered, the bar reeked of mold, and half the chairs were broken.
Joker stood on the stage, arms wide, grinning at his little collection of freaks.
Grimm leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, silent and watchful.
Rico paced near the door, chewing his nails.
Minks sat on a stool, flipping her knives, eyes locked on Joker like he was the most interesting thing in the room.
"My friends," Joker said, bowing theatrically, "welcome to the show. Gotham doesn't know it yet, but we're about to give them the performance of a lifetime."
He spread his arms, laughing. "The mob has money, the cops have guns, the city has rules. But us? We have imagination. We don't follow the script. We write it. And the first line?"
He slammed a fist against his palm, eyes gleaming.
"We rob the Maronis. Not just their money — their pride. We make them the punchline."
Rico swallowed hard. Grimm cracked his knuckles. Minks licked her lips.
Joker raised his arms higher, laughter echoing off the cracked walls.
"Ladies and gentlemen… the Clown Gang is open for business!"
And for the first time, Gotham had no idea it was about to start laughing — and screaming — all at once.