log: joker & bats at the funhouse
Gotham was a game of jacks played on the roof of a runaway train. Even with all of the inherent corruption, the city's criminals screamed and grappled for control alongside politicians and pontiffs. Did they imagine that there was something to save? There was something to be said for crazy, but even the clown wasn't one to romanticize the possibilities of Gotham. That was the Bat's job, the Commisioner's job, even the mobsters' job. Everyone had bought their tickets long ago, there was no turning back now. They were invested in the long haul, in the rickety ride.
But the Joker didn't do investments. He wasn't programmed to dream on the potentials or would-have-beens. Amusement Mile had been a decaying eyesore from the first night that the clown prince crossed the grounds, never to see a fresh coat of paint or proper maintenance since. He appreciated face value, he saw promise in certainty. Gotham had its certainties. The Bat was one of them. For as sure as the Joker set fires, Batman always came running with the extinguisher. It was true that he probably hadn't needed the Cat to lure the caped crusader out of his hidey hole of detective gadgets, but blowing her up had really just been a little cherry on top. Besides, he hated to see dynamite go stale. Not on his watch!
And now here they were, the moment of truth in a house of lies. They weren't really the type of old friends to get together over coffee, surely the Bat didn't expect anything less than explosives and blood. The funhouse was lit up from the outside by the echoing flicker of ferris wheel flames, its painted exterior was a gaudy retelling of the Devil's playground with pitchforked imps of red and warped, licking fire surrounding sinners on pikes. The whites were yellowed and the yellows were all brown by now, but even considering that, it still looked a whole hell of a lot better than the inside.
Inside, it smelled like mildew. Like a broken water main from a decade back that now harbored black mold. The carpeting underfoot was stale and stained, mold and blood and the fresh taint of kerosene ruined what had once been red and white peppermint swirls. The smoke machine worked, as wisps of frothy gray rolled across the floor, curling around the Bat's ankles like memories of a kitty cat. The lights were dim and unhelpful, flickering in sad welcome as one left the world outside and came to the darkness to play.
This was no maze, there was only one direction to proceed. An unending corridor of tricks, it zigged and zagged. At one point, the carpet gave way to metal grates that slid back and forth with a rusty whine, something that would have made it difficult to walk for the common man. The next corridor was lined with colorful punching bags that swung from left to right, harmless. The line of trick mirrors came next, warping ones reflection in every way. One of the mirrors had a smear of fresh blood on the curved glass, and up ahead, a doorway opened to pitch black.
It was from inside that darkness that the Clown spoke.
"The only way I can make her any fun is when she's dangling from the end of a trap, and look, we all win..."