THE KILLING JOKE

Part 8: A New Candidate

The city of Gotham was already teetering on the edge of madness. Political campaigns dominated every corner of the city, but beneath the polished speeches and smiling billboards, something darker brewed in the undercurrent. The tension between Harvey Dent and Bruce Wayne filled the headlines, but behind the scenes, another player was making his move—one that no one had expected.

Jack Napier had been watching, waiting, and planning. His former life as a small-time gangster had been wiped away the night he fell into the vats at Ace Chemicals. What emerged from that toxic stew was something twisted, something new. And now, it was time to unveil his next act.

Standing in front of a cracked mirror in an abandoned warehouse, Jack grinned at his reflection. His skin, bleached white by the chemicals, was pulled tight over his sharp cheekbones. The scars that twisted his mouth into a permanent, grotesque smile were healed now, but they still throbbed when he moved his lips. His eyes, once filled with greed and petty ambition, now burned with something far more dangerous—madness.

His transformation was almost complete. With a wild laugh, Jack reached for the bowl of green dye sitting on the counter. He dipped his fingers into the dye and ran them through his hair, watching as the once-dark locks turned an unnatural, vibrant green. He grinned wider, the sight of his new look filling him with glee. The green hair, the bleached skin—it was perfect.

But it wasn't enough.

He needed more. He needed to make a statement.

Stepping back from the mirror, Jack reached for the custom-tailored suit hanging on a nearby chair. It was green and purple, garish and loud—the opposite of the sleek, tailored looks favoured by Gotham's elites. He slipped into the jacket, adjusting the lapels and straightening the purple tie around his neck. With every step of the transformation, he felt more powerful, more himself.

Tonight was the night. His new plan would unfold, and Gotham would never be the same again.

The meeting was held in one of Gotham's most prestigious hotels, a gathering of influential business leaders, political strategists, and donors who all had a stake in the upcoming election. These were the power brokers who made decisions behind the scenes, the ones who truly pulled the strings. They had come together to discuss the future of Gotham, but none of them knew that the future was already sitting in their midst, hiding in plain sight.

Jack strolled into the room, his green hair slicked back, his purple suit catching the light. Heads turned as he walked in, his presence impossible to ignore. There was a ripple of unease among the attendees—something about him set them on edge, though they couldn't quite put their finger on it.

He took his seat at the table, grinning widely at the stunned faces around him. One by one, the business leaders shifted uncomfortably in their chairs.

"Ah, gentlemen," Jack began, leaning back in his chair with exaggerated ease, "I've come to discuss a very interesting proposition."

The head of the table, a gray-haired man named Wallace Caldwell, who controlled a significant chunk of Gotham's political landscape, stared at Jack with growing suspicion. "Who the hell are you supposed to be?" Caldwell asked, his tone sharp. "You're not on the list."

Jack chuckled, his eyes gleaming. "Oh, I'm not on your list, Mr. Caldwell, but I should be. You see, I've decided to run for mayor."

The room erupted in murmurs and scoffs, the other attendees exchanging glances of disbelief. This was a man who looked like a circus performer, not a mayoral candidate. But Jack remained unfazed, his smile growing wider as he leaned forward.

"I know what you're thinking," Jack continued, his voice taking on a mockingly thoughtful tone. "How could someone like me, a man of the people, possibly compete with someone like Harvey Dent or Bruce Wayne? After all, they're heroes, right?" His voice dripped with sarcasm, and his grin twisted into something far more sinister.

"Gotham's tired of heroes," he said, his tone dropping to a low growl. "Gotham needs someone who understands the chaos. Someone who knows how to thrive in it. Someone who isn't afraid to embrace it."

Caldwell narrowed his eyes, leaning forward as he studied Jack's face. "You're no mayor. You're nothing but a joke," he spat. "A stupid, fucking clown."

For a brief moment, the room went still. Jack's smile faltered, his eyes darkening. Slowly, he stood from his chair, adjusting his jacket as the tension in the room thickened. The men and women seated around the table shifted nervously, sensing something was very, very wrong.

Then, in one smooth motion, Jack reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a sleek, black gas mask. He slid it over his face, the leather straps tightening as he secured it in place. The room fell into stunned silence.

"What the hell are you doing?" Caldwell demanded, his voice edged with fear.

Jack tilted his head, his eyes gleaming from behind the mask. "You're right about one thing, Mr. Caldwell," he said, his voice now muffled but still dripping with glee. "I am a fucking clown. And you all are just too serious for my taste."

Before anyone could react, Jack reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, round canister. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it onto the table, where it clattered for a split second before a thick green gas hissed out, filling the room in seconds.

The business leaders leaped from their chairs, panic erupting as they scrambled for the exits. But it was too late. The gas spread rapidly, seeping into their lungs as they coughed and choked, their eyes wide with terror. They clawed at their throats, their bodies convulsing as the poison did its work.

One by one, they collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony as the gas took hold. Their faces twisted into horrible, unnatural smiles, their muscles contorting against their will. The laughter came next—high-pitched, manic, uncontrollable. It was the last sound they made before the poison claimed them, leaving their bodies still, their faces frozen in rictus grins.

Jack stood at the head of the table, watching with twisted satisfaction as the room fell silent, save for the hiss of the gas dispersing into the air. He removed the mask, his own grin as wide and gleeful as ever.

Stepping over the bodies, Jack made his way to the head of the table and sat down in Caldwell's now-vacant chair. He leaned back, his feet propped up on the table as he surveyed the carnage with a laugh.

"Well," he said to the empty room, "looks like there's an opening for a new mayor."

He glanced down at one of the men still twitching on the floor, his face locked in a grotesque grin. Jack chuckled to himself, reaching into his coat and pulling out a campaign flyer he had mocked up earlier. He tossed it onto the man's chest, the bold lettering standing out against the bloodstained floor.

It read:

"Vote Jack Napier: The Future of Gotham. Why So Serious?"

With one last, lingering glance at the twisted faces around him, Jack stood, his laughter echoing off the walls. He walked out of the room, leaving behind a trail of death and madness.

Gotham wasn't ready for what was coming.

But Jack was ready to deliver it.