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Chapter 6 – Chaos in Gotham
The city didn't sleep after the Maroni job. Gotham never truly slept, but that night it felt like something inside it had woken up for the first time in years.
The papers hit the streets before dawn.
"Maroni's Casino Robbed—Masked Clown Leads Crew."
"Mob Humiliated in Daring Heist."
"Jesters of Crime?"
By morning, everyone had an opinion. Bartenders poured whiskey over the story, cab drivers muttered about it while honking through traffic, and in the neighborhoods under Maroni's thumb, people whispered with both fear and awe. Someone had punched the biggest mobster in Gotham right in the jaw and laughed while doing it.
The myth was already growing.
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GCPD Headquarters
Commissioner Gillian Loeb threw the newspaper across his office.
"Humiliated! That's what this is!" he barked, his voice carrying through the thin walls. "We look like fools while a clown plays circus in my city!"
Downstairs, detectives were crowded around a corkboard, pinning up blurry photographs from casino cameras. The images were grainy, smeared by the harsh casino lights, but one figure stood out: a tall man in a crude clown mask, head tilted slightly like the whole thing amused him.
Detective Flass jabbed a finger at the photo. "They're calling him The Clown."
His partner, Ramirez, shook her head. "That's not a name, that's a nightmare. Look at him—no rush, no panic. Like he wanted the cameras to see him."
Another detective laughed bitterly. "If he wanted a career, he picked the wrong city. You cross Maroni, you don't live long enough for us to book you."
The squad room was tense. Half the detectives were already thinking about how to report this to Maroni's men before their payoffs got cut. The other half wondered how many more nights they'd have to stay awake chasing a ghost with greasepaint for a face.
Loeb stormed in, his eyes bloodshot. "Listen to me, and listen good! I don't care if this clown eats babies in front of City Hall, I want him found. The Maroni family is breathing down my neck, and I don't like it."
Flass raised a hand. "What if… we just let Maroni deal with it? Save us the trouble."
Loeb glared. "And let that greaseball run Gotham? No. We control the city, not him. You catch this clown, or I'll find detectives who will."
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The Maroni Club
Across town, Sal Maroni hurled a whiskey glass against the wall of his private club. The shards scattered across the carpet as his lieutenants stood in silence, afraid to breathe too loudly.
"A casino!" Maroni's voice cracked with rage. "My casino! You know what it means when word gets out that anyone can stroll in, take my money, and walk out laughing? It means I'm a joke. And Salvatore Maroni is never a joke."
One of his capos tried to steady him. "We've got the streets searching, boss. We'll find this clown. Somebody had to see something."
Maroni spun, his face red. "I don't want somebody. I want results. You find this clown, you drag him in front of me, and I'll make the whole city watch while I cut that painted smile off his face."
Another underboss cleared his throat carefully. "Sal, what if this wasn't just a cash grab? The way it was done… loud, theatrical… maybe this guy's making a point."
Maroni froze for a moment, then snarled. "A point? The only point that matters is a bullet in his skull. Spread the word. Any rat, any street punk who even whispers about knowing this clown and doesn't talk to us first—I'll string him up under the L-train with a red nose shoved up his—"
He didn't finish. He didn't need to. Everyone in the room understood. The hunt was on.
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The Hideout
In a run-down warehouse on the east side, the crew sat around crates of stolen cash.
Rico paced back and forth, chain-smoking, his nerves shot. "They're coming for us. Maroni's men, the cops—hell, probably both. We should get out while we can. Lay low, head down south, maybe even out of the country."
Grimm leaned against a steel beam, arms crossed, his huge frame looming. His knuckles were raw from punching a slot machine that refused to open during the job. "Let them come. I've been waiting for a real fight. Maroni's dogs bleed like everyone else."
Minks, lounging upside down on a chair with his legs in the air, laughed. "Oh, I like this! Cops chasing us, mob sniffing around… it's like we're in the middle of a game show. What's behind curtain number three? Death? Or glory?"
Joker sat at the center of it all, calm as if none of this mattered. He was flipping playing cards through his fingers, letting them dance between knuckles. The room's arguments didn't seem to reach him until he finally chuckled.
"You're all thinking too small," he said.
Rico spun. "Too small? You realize Maroni wants our heads on pikes?"
"Exactly," Joker grinned. "Which means we have their attention. And once you have their attention… you can make them laugh, cry, or scream. Depends on the punchline."
He tossed a card onto the table. The Joker, naturally.
"We don't run," he said softly. "We perform."
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Far from Gotham
Half a world away, Bruce Wayne knelt in the snow. His hands were raw, bloodied from hours of striking a wooden post wrapped in rope. The monks watched in silence as he struck again, and again, his breath clouding the cold air.
A gray-bearded monk finally stepped forward. "You push your body beyond breaking, young one. Why?"
Bruce wiped the blood from his knuckles, his jaw set. "Because the world is broken. And I need to be stronger than the world."
The monk studied him carefully. "Strength is not enough. You must learn to see the shadows, to hear the silence between heartbeats. Evil is patient. Evil prepares while you sharpen your sword."
Bruce closed his eyes, letting the wind sting his skin. Somewhere in Gotham, he felt the pull of the city he had left behind. Somewhere, a shadow was preparing. But he couldn't know yet.
---
Detective Ramirez tossed a stack of files on her desk. "We've got witnesses saying the clown called himself 'Jack.' Another says he called himself 'Joe.' One even swears he called himself 'Bozo.' He's playing with us."
Flass smirked. "Yeah, well, he won't be laughing when Maroni gets him."
She shot him a glare. "That's the problem, Flass. If Maroni kills him first, we'll never know what he's planning. And something tells me this guy isn't just in it for the cash."
Commissioner Loeb marched past them, barking orders. "I want every informant squeezed. Every street gang questioned. If this clown sneezes, I want to know if it was funny."
The department groaned under the pressure. Gotham had seen crime before, but not like this. This wasn't just a robbery. It was a performance. And everyone—cops, mobsters, and citizens alike—were part of the audience.
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The Warehouse – Night
The crew gathered again. This time Joker stood in the shadows of the warehouse, his hands resting on a crate. The smell of chemicals filled the air—ammonia, bleach, things that didn't belong in the same room.
"What is this?" Grimm asked, frowning.
Joker smiled, tapping the lid of the crate. "Supplies. Gifts, you might say. Gotham's been sad for too long. Time to give it a reason to laugh."
Minks leaned forward, eyes wide. "Chemicals? Ohhh… now this is fun."
Rico's face paled. "This isn't a robbery anymore. This is… something else. You're planning a war."
Joker's grin widened. "Not a war, Rico. A show. Wars are messy, boring. But a show?" He spread his arms wide, like a magician unveiling a trick. "A show leaves people talking. A show makes people remember."
He stepped into the dim light, eyes glittering behind the paint.
"Money? That was just the warm-up, boys. Gotham thinks it's seen crime. It hasn't seen me."
He leaned closer, voice dropping into a whisper.
"Gentlemen… we're going to give Gotham its first real laugh."
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And somewhere across the city, in Maroni's club and in the halls of the GCPD, men were sharpening knives and loading guns, not knowing that the clown wasn't finished—not by a long shot.
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