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Chapter 8 – The Circus of Death
The night was dark, very dark, and wet. The road was wet, shining with oil, shining like glass, shining like blood waiting to spill. The circus stood there, broken, torn, dead but still alive. A face painted, big clown teeth cracked, wide wide smile that wouldn't die.
Cars rolled in, black cars, heavy engines, lights cutting through the fog. Maroni's cars, Maroni's men. Doors slammed, guns flashed. Shoes hitting gravel, crunch, crunch, crunch.
"This place, boss… this place is wrong."
"Shut up," Maroni chewed his cigar, spit smoke, spit confidence. "It's a meeting. Just a meeting. The clown wants to talk, so we talk. He tries something… he dies."
Men laughed. Not real laughs. Sharp laughs. Nervous laughs. Fingers stayed on triggers.
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Inside the tent. Inside the tent everything smelled of rot. Smelled of paint, greasepaint, and something else, something sharp, bitter, something like medicine and poison together. Lights flickered, flickered, buzzing like broken flies. Shadows big, tall, stretching like monsters.
The table was long, red cloth dragging on the dirty floor. Cards everywhere. Balloons tied to chairs, red and yellow and white. Smiles painted on them, wide, wide, too wide.
At the far end, at the far, far end, he sat. The clown.
Jack. Or Joker. Or nothing.
Purple suit dirty, dirty but neat, like he dressed for his own funeral. Makeup thick, white, smeared but painted fresh. His mouth wide, smiling, always smiling. Fingers tapping the table like he was waiting for the music to start.
"Gentlemen!" His voice rose too high, dropped too low. "Welcome, welcome, welcome to the circus! Step right up, step right in. You're the stars of tonight's show!"
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Maroni's eyes narrowed. He didn't sit. He didn't trust. "You wanted to talk business. We're here. Say it."
The clown laughed. Soft at first. Then loud. Then louder. Balloons shook from it.
"Business, yes. Oh, business. Business is fun. But fun is business! And tonight, tonight, tonight… hahahaha… tonight, the show must go on!"
Maroni snapped his fingers. His men spread, guns aimed, eyes sharp. "Cut the crap, clown. You think you scare me with this cheap show?"
Joker tilted his head, smile never moving. "Scare you? Oh, no, no, no. I don't scare you, Maroni. I kill you."
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The lights went out.
Dark. Dark like a coffin.
Then — hiss. Gas. The sound of leaking pipes. The smell filling fast, fast, too fast. Sweet, sharp, burning the nose.
Maroni's men coughed. Cough turned to choke. Choke turned to laugh. Laugh too hard, too sharp, ribs cracking from it.
"Hhhahahahaha—"
"Can't— breathe—hahahahaha!"
"Boss! Boss—hahahaha!"
They dropped. They dropped like dolls with their strings cut, still laughing, faces stretching, grins painted by death.
Lights flickered back. Balloons burst one by one, pop-pop-pop, spraying more gas, more laughter.
Maroni stumbled, eyes wide, cigar falling from his mouth. His men were on the ground, twitching, clutching their stomachs, blood in their teeth, grins carved into their faces.
And at the center of it all, the clown danced. He spun, arms wide, coat flaring like wings. He laughed with them, over them, louder than them.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls! Welcome to the greatest show on Earth — death by laughter!"
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Maroni drew his gun, shaking, coughing, spitting blood. "You… you freak—"
Bang.
The clown had his gun first.
Maroni's chest burst red. He staggered, he fell, his eyes open wide, his mouth locked in a final laugh he didn't want.
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Silence. Silence except the echo of laughter still ringing, ringing, ringing.
The clown stood alone in the tent, alone with the bodies, alone with the balloons deflated on the ground like dead smiles. He breathed deep, deep the gas, didn't cough, didn't choke. He smiled wider.
He whispered to himself, to the corpses, to the city:
"Now they'll all know. Know my name. Know my smile. Gotham is mine now. Mine."
And he walked out, walked out of the circus of death, the tent still echoing with the last broken laughs of the Maroni family.
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Up, up, high, high on the roof across the circus ring, a shadow sat, crouched low, cape dragging, cape heavy, cape moving with the wind. Eyes white, glowing white, not blinking, not moving. Watching. Watching. Watching. He had come back, come back to Gotham, and Gotham was already bleeding, bleeding deep.
Batman.
He waited, he did not move, he did not blink, only stared. His jaw hard, fists closed, tight closed. The gas below was rolling, moving, crawling across the ring, shimmer shimmer under the broken lights. The Clown moved inside it, like a puppet master, like a conductor, pulling strings no one else could see. Death danced to his tune.
For long, for long, for too long, the shadow only watched. Then the breath came sharp, sharp, fists clenched, cape shivered, the choice was made. No more watching.
The cape lifted, lifted like black wings, wings of a demon, wings of a bat.
The shadow fell.
He fell.
Down, down, down into the laughter, into the gas, into the chaos. Down toward Jack.
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