The Atlantic ocean wind howling off the Brooklyn coast smelled like salt, rust, and rot.
Over on the south end of Coney Island, tucked behind the dark boardwalk and the shadow of the rusted Wonder Wheel, sat the old abandoned Funhouse pavilion. It was a relic from the fifties—faded pastel paint peeling like dead skin, neon sign hanging by a single copper wire, and a giant twenty-foot papier-mâché clown head over the front archway, its grinning face cracked straight down the middle.
Jack stood right inside the mouth of the giant clown head, his boots resting on the cracked wooden tongue.
His purple shirt was unbuttoned down to his naval, exposing fresh blood soaking through his chest bandages where the bullet had grazed him. But the [10.8% SYNCHRONIZATION] was humming behind his skull like a live circuit. His white face paint was touched up—fresh, chalky, and thick—and the crimson lip balm was dragged four inches past his cheekbones, practically meeting the dark, smudged raccoon sockets around his eyes.
"Listen to that ocean breeze, girls!" Jack rasped, his voice echoing off the hollow plywood walls of the abandoned arcade. "Smells like popcorn, sea foam, and pure, unfiltered opportunity!"
Down on the floorboards of the main carnival floor, Natasha sat on a rusted bumper car, calmly field-stripping a Glock 19. The silver pieces clinked neatly onto a greasy towel spread over her lap.
"It smells like pigeon droppings and asbestos, Jack," Natasha said, her voice completely deadpan as she snapped the slide back onto the frame. CLICK-CLACK.
"Details, Red, details!" Jack cackled, dropping six feet off the clown mouth and landing on the wooden floor with a heavy THUD. He didn't even wince as his ribs vibrated. "This place has history! Character! It's got... vibes! Look at this!"
He sprinted over to a dust-covered fortune teller machine—'Zoltar the Great'—and slammed his fist against the glass casing.
CRACK!
The glass shattered into a hundred glittering shards. Jack reached inside, grabbed the creepy plastic turban-wearing mannequin by the neck, popped its head clean off, and stuck it on top of a nearby rusted floor lamp.
"There! Interior decorating!" Jack grinned, his blood-stained teeth flashing against his crimson smile. "Home sweet home!"
Over by the abandoned cotton candy booth, Felicia was sitting on a dusty counter, unboxing three giant wooden crates she’d bribed a harbor dockworker to truck in from a warehouse in Queens.
"Alright, Joker," Felicia said, blowing a strand of platinum hair out of her eyes. "Your black-market shopping list is officially delivered. We have twenty industrial fog machines, five hundred feet of copper wiring, six crates of commercial-grade pyrotechnics, and three hundred helium tanks."
Natasha looked up from her Glock, her grey eyes narrowing. "Jack. What exactly are you building in here?"
Jack slowly walked over to the center of the dark carnival hall, his lavender jacket flapping around his knees like a pair of broken wings. He stretched his arms wide, looking up at the vaulted, rotten wooden roof structure above them.
"I told you, sweetheart..." Jack purred softly, his voice dropping into that dark, raspy whisper that made the air pressure in the room drop five degrees. "...we're building a studio. A broadcasting station. A little comedy club for the whole city of New York."
He turned back to Natasha, leaning over her bumper car until his white-and-crimson face was barely two inches from her nose. The sharp smell of theatrical greasepaste and copper mixed with the sea air.
"Fisk thought he could scare people with guns," Jack whispered, his unblinking, bloodshot eyes glowing with absolute, Grade-A maniacal energy. "Stark thinks he can save 'em with iron suits. But me? I'm gonna give 'em a show... a big, bright, noisy carnival show that's gonna force every hero, cop, and mobster in this town to come down to Brooklyn and buy a ticket..."
He reached out, his thumb brushing a stray red strand of hair off Natasha's cheek, leaving a faint white smudge of zinc paint behind.
"...and you, Red..." Jack hummed, his chest vibrating with a low, raspy hehehe. "...you're gonna have a front-row seat..."
Natasha didn't pull back. She stared into his wide, bloodshot eyes, her expression cool, but her pulse point under her jaw jumped just once.
"And what if Frank Castle buys a ticket, Jack?" Natasha asked quietly. "He doesn't like the circus."
Jack’s crimson smile expanded until it looked physically impossible for his jaw to hold it.
"Let him come, Natty..." Jack shrieked into the high rafters, exploding into a wild, echoing laugh that sent a flock of roosting pigeons bursting out through the roof tiles. "LET THE PUNISHER COME! DARE HIM TO BUY A TICKET! HAHAHAHA!"
Comments (0)