The maître d’ at Le Cirque Noir in Upper East Manhattan looked like he was about to pass out directly onto the marble floor.
It was eight in the evening. The dining room was filled with hedge fund managers, city council members, and wealthy socialites clinking crystal wine glasses under three-million-dollar chandeliers.
And right in the middle of the room, sitting at the best corner booth, was Jack.
He still had the chalk-white paint slathered over his skin, the smudged black raccoon circles around his eyes, and the crimson lip balm smeared three inches past the corners of his mouth. He’d swapped his coat for a slick, stolen lavender velvet blazer that didn't fit his shoulders, and he was currently using a silver lobster fork to pick his teeth.
Natasha sat across from him in a sleek black dress, sipping a glass of two-thousand-dollar Pinot Noir with absolute, stone-cold composure. Felicia sat beside her, wearing a designer trench coat she’d definitely stolen, idly twirling a diamond ring on her index finger while laughing into her linen napkin.
"Excuse me, sir..." the trembling waiter stammered, holding a leather-bound menu like a shield. "We... we have a dress code... and the manager is currently on the phone with..."
Jack reached into his lavender jacket, pulled out a thick leather wallet he'd pickpocketed off a Union Allied board member two days ago, and slapped four black American Express cards onto the crisp white tablecloth with a heavy THWACK.
"Keep the phone in your pocket, Pierre!" Jack rasped, his wide, bloodshot eyes unblinking as his crimson mouth stretched into a terrifying grin. "We’re celebrating! Bring us three orders of the Wagyu steak, your finest bottle of French mouthwash, and whatever dessert has the highest chance of catching fire at the table! Put it on the card marked 'W. Fisk'!"
The waiter looked down at the black Amex card—which literally read WILSON FISK in gold embossed letters—and swallowed hard.
"R-right away, sir," the waiter squeaked, grabbing the cards and sprinting toward the kitchen like his pants were on fire.
Felicia burst out into a loud, musical laugh, leaning back against the plush velvet booth. "Jack, you are utterly vile. Using Kingpin’s black card to buy truffle risotto while he’s sitting in a federal holding cell? That’s cold. Even for you."
"Cold?!" Jack cackled, taking a huge, unrefined swig straight from the water decanter, wiping his chin with his sleeve and leaving a long white-and-red streak on the fabric. "It’s called poetic justice, Kitty! Willie paid for my stitches, now he’s paying for my appetizers! It’s called supply-side economics!"
He leaned over the table, his white-painted face dropping into the warm candlelight, his eyes glowing with that familiar, manic [10.8% SYNCHRONIZATION] spark.
Natasha set her wine glass down, her grey eyes cutting right through his theatrical clown makeup. "Alright, Jack. You brought us to the most expensive dining room in Manhattan in full war paint. What’s the punchline?"
"The punchline, Red..." Jack purred softly, leaning in until his raspy voice was barely a whisper over the soft piano music in the background, "...is that Fisk was just the warm-up act. The appetizer. Now? I’m hungry for the main course."
"Which is?" Felicia asked, tossing a piece of artisan bread into her mouth.
"The whole damn city," Jack whispered, his smile growing wider, darker, and infinitely more unhinged. "Fisk thought he ran New York because he had money. Stark thinks he runs it because he’s got iron toys. Spider-Man thinks he runs it because he wears spandex. But me?"
He reached out with his lobster fork, tapping the rim of Natasha's wine glass until it chimed with a high, ringing tone.
"I'm gonna turn the whole town into a comedy club..." Jack rasped, his chest vibrating with a dry, wheezing hehehe. "...and nobody’s getting out without a laugh... dare 'em to cancel the show, Natty... DARE 'EM! HAHAHAHA!"
Natasha stared at him through the candlelight, her expression completely unreadable, though a tiny, dark spark of intrigue flickered deep in her eyes.
"You're going to get us all killed, Jack," Natasha murmured quietly.
"Yeah!" Jack grinned, winking at her through his black-painted eye. "But think about the Yelp reviews! HAHAHAHA!"
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