The Laughing Plague

Chapter I

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the dusty sky in fiery hues of orange and red as the riders of The Laughing Plague crested the hill overlooking the town of Redemption. The wind, a constant companion in this desolate land, whipped at their dust-caked clothing, carrying with it the faint clang of spurs and the rhythmic creak of leather.

At the head of the group rode Jacob, better known as Jester. His face, permanently etched with a macabre smile painted in dried blood, seemed to hold a constant, manic amusement that belied the cold glint in his eyes. His laughter, a high-pitched, chilling cackle, was as infamous as his name, a harbinger of both chaos and bloodshed.

Beside him, cloaked in shadow and exuding an aura of icy calm, rode Cassy, also known as Killjoy. Her beauty, sharp and lethal like a honed blade, was marred by a steely glint in her emerald eyes that spoke of countless battles fought and won. While Jester craved the spectacle, the performance, Cassy was the silent hand, the strategist, the one who ensured their reign of terror remained unmatched.

"Redemption, huh?" Jester drawled, his voice a gravelly rasp. "Sounds more like a death sentence for some unlucky souls." A guttural chuckle escaped his lips, echoing eerily in the vast emptiness.

"Town looks too quiet," Cassy observed, her voice a low murmur that carried none of Jester's theatrics. "Probably got wind of our arrival."

Jester tilted his head, his blood-stained smile widening. "Maybe," he conceded, "But they underestimate the Jester, don't they, Killjoy? They think they can hide behind their rickety walls and locked doors." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But the Jester always finds a way to play."

Their arrival in the town was met with a chilling silence. Doors creaked shut, windows were slammed, and the only movement came from tumbleweeds bouncing down the deserted main street. The air hung heavy with anticipation, a storm brewing beneath the calm facade.

Jester dismounted, his boots crunching on the parched earth. He stretched, his movements fluidly predatory, before turning to his lieutenants, Twitch and Razor. Both men, hardened criminals forged in the fires of the frontier, bore the mark of the Laughing Plague – a Clown smile emblazoned on their leather vests.

"Twitch, you and Razor take the boys and scout the bank," Jester ordered, his voice laced with a dangerous lilt. "See what kind of security they're packing. Killjoy, you and I, we're heading to the saloon. Time for a little refreshment before the main act."

Killjoy nodded curtly, her emerald eyes scanning the town square. "Be careful, Jester," she said quietly. "They might be setting a trap."

Jester threw his head back and cackled, the sound echoing off the deserted buildings. "That's half the fun, Killjoy! You wouldn't deny me a little pre-show entertainment, would you?" He winked at her, a glint of something darker flashing in his eyes.

Without further comment, he strode towards the swinging doors of the saloon, Killjoy following close behind. The air inside was thick with the smell of stale beer and sweat, the only occupants a lone bartender wiping down a dusty counter.

Jester walked straight to the bar, slamming his palm down with a force that rattled the glasses. "Whiskey," he declared, his voice booming through the silence. "Double shot, make it quick, and don't bother with the ice. I like my fire straight from the bottle."

The bartender, a weathered man with a scraggly beard, jumped a mile at Jester's sudden appearance. He cast a nervous glance at the menacing skull emblazoned on Jester's vest before grabbing a bottle from behind the counter.

"Whisky coming right up, mister," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper.

Jester watched the bartender pour the amber liquid with a detached amusement, his eyes scanning the room. He noticed a group of men huddled in a corner booth, their faces tense and watchful. They wore the air of men who knew something was about to go down.

A slow grin stretched across his blood-stained face. It looked less like a smile and more like a hungry wolf baring its teeth. He raised his glass in a silent toast to the men, a challenge in his eyes.

The tension in the saloon was thick enough to cut with a knife. The other patrons, sensing trouble brewing, either scurried out the door or glued themselves to their seats, their eyes wide with fear.

"You folks look like you've seen a ghost," Jester drawled, his voice dripping with amusement. "Relax"

The air crackled with the electricity of impending violence. Killjoy, who had been leaning against the bar next to Jester, her eyes narrowed in observation, turned towards the men in the corner. Their gazes met, a silent exchange of cold steel and steely resolve.

One of the men, a burly fellow with a handlebar mustache and a mean glint in his eye, leaned forward, his voice laced with a sneer. "Heard there's a new gang in town," he drawled, his gaze lingering on Killjoy a beat too long. "Heard they call themselves the Laughing Plague."

Jester chuckled, a low rumble that sent shivers down the bartender's spine. "Heard right, friend," he replied, his voice devoid of humor. "And you heard right about the laughing part too."

The mustached man scoffed. "Heard you're all bark and no bite," he said, his voice dripping with bravado. "Just a bunch of painted faces and fancy names."

Before Jester could retort, the bartender, emboldened by the exchange, piped up. "Yeah," he chimed in, his voice trembling. "Maybe your lady friend here should lay off the rouge a bit. Looks like she got a little too enthusiastic with the paintbrush."

A hush fell over the saloon. The air, already thick with tension, grew suffocating. Killjoy's eyes narrowed to slits, her hand instinctively going for the hidden blade strapped to her thigh. Jester, however, remained outwardly calm, a predatory stillness settling over him.

But the calm was deceptive. In a blink of an eye, Jester's hand shot across the counter, the glass of whiskey forgotten. His fingers, surprisingly nimble for such a large man, snatched the fruit knife the bartender used for garnishes. With a swift, fluid motion, he slammed the blade down onto the counter, pinning the bartender's hand to the wood.

A scream tore from the man's throat, his eyes bulging in terror. The other patrons, who had been frozen in fear, gasped in unison. The saloon, once filled with the murmur of conversation, was now eerily silent, punctuated only by the ragged gasps of the pinned man.

Jester leaned in close, his blood-stained smile widening into a grotesque parody of amusement. His voice, when he spoke, was a low growl, devoid of any humor. "You," he said, each word dripping with venom, "will apologize to the lady."

The bartender whimpered, his face contorted in pain. "I... I..." he stammered, his voice choked with fear.

Jester didn't wait for a reply. He slammed the man's head down onto the counter, the sickening thud echoing through the silent room. He repeated the action twice more, each blow punctuated by a guttural growl.

Blood began to seep from a gash on the bartender's forehead, staining the wood crimson. His eyes, glazed with pain and fear, darted between Jester and Killjoy, pleading for mercy.

"Now," Jester hissed, his voice cold and hard as steel, "apologize."

The bartender, broken and whimpering, managed to croak out, "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."

Jester withdrew the knife slowly, his eyes never leaving the man's face. He tossed the bloodied blade onto the counter with a clatter, the metallic sound sending shivers down everyone's spines.

"Good," he said, his voice regaining its usual lilt, though devoid of any warmth. "Now, get me another drink, and make it a double."

The bartender, his face pale and streaked with tears, scrambled to obey. He grabbed a fresh bottle of whiskey, his hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped it.

As Jester raised his glass to his lips, a single tear rolled down his cheek, tracing a path through the dried blood that painted his twisted smile. It was a single tear, not of remorse, but of a chilling satisfaction, a reminder of the power he wielded and the chaos he reveled in.

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