Mistonsa

Jester was not amused, though one could never tell from the nigh permanent smile on his face. However, today the purple creature had the privilege of not needing to put on a mask (figuratively speaking, as literally he of course still wore one). A mask over a mask, one of mysterious polymer that managed to roam over his face like permanently wet clay. The other, a small piece of medical cloth which allowed the leader, for once, to frown; a useful luxury as he found a strangely stamped letter on his bed while arriving to the entrance of his personal tent, Bil by his side, to witness the…disturbance.

“What…should we tell the others?” The TicketTaker’s body was still, fully adorned in his usual costume.

Jester sighed, walking now inside while signaling Bil to stay where he was. Smiling, despite not needing to, the amethyst clown stood finally over his bed, glaring at the mysterious letter with growing unease.

Grabbing the piece of paper, Jester uses a lone claw to open it, immediately silencing the ticketer’s frantic protests not to do so with his free hand, back turned.

“I am aware of what this is, Bil. Not to worry,” the purple leader began reading silently.

Dearest Jester,

It has been too long, hasn’t it? Your likeness never leaves my mind though that seems to be the way of muses, isn’t it? That creature friend of yours with the Q name remembers you, he speaks of you often even though we are both certain that he doesn’t know you as well as I.

I still believe, however, after all this time, that a reconciliation is possible.

If you agree, why don’t we talk this through? Come to the address marked on the back at the allotted time. You will be attended to your every need.

Your Greatest Fan,

            The Painter

Sighing once more, heavily so, Jester turns the piece of paper to the other side, narrowing his gaze at the information provided as well as familiar symbol that brought him and his circus nothing but trouble.

“Of course he’d like to meet there,” the leader’s words practically rolled his eyes for him.

The moniker of ‘Q’ rang a bell that the purple creature had thought been dulled by time and rust--much too dirty to polish Jester’s memory of the acquainted beast’s true name. Turning back towards Bil, Jester places the invitation in his coat pocket before adjusting the hood and hat he wore in his casual attire.

“Jes,” the ticketer’s eyes followed his leader even after passing by the blue clown, “what are your orders?”

The purple leader then stopped in his tracks, choosing again not to face his most devoted and loyal friend. Jester would never say aloud but he could not bear to look at Bil as he worried for him, the weight of that gaze would make him fold; be more cautious and careful than needed.

Such things The Painter would use against him.

“I will handle this on my own,” slowly, The Jester speaks with a cold, and commanding tone. “Tell Pierrot not to save me a plate this afternoon. I am going…out…to eat.”

He felt nothing, and why should he when nothing wrong had been done?

“You’re so brilliant,” a figure whose waist was lumped and moving under a heavily lined brown trench coat. “Jester was cruel to you. Spreading accusations of things you never would have done now. You were simply young, wanted to help, we all understand. We all make mistakes.”

Carpets drenched in old ink stains atop red felt stuck under the disguised creature’s steps as he began shedding his cloak. The long path before him was adorned with guards of various sizes, claws of all sharpness and shape, lit torches in each hand that made the begging creature sweat as he continued to approach. It was night, as it had to be for all monster-kind to roam freely. Surrounded now by empty rollercoasters, and booths of games whose lights continued blinking on and off their autumnal hues until the timers attached to them would off, likely in an hour or two. Another fully shadowed figure sits on an old seat from a broken ferris wheel atop several steps at the end of the felt-carpeted walkway. Eyes of silver looming under darkness as though deep in thought; talented fingers caressing a paintbrush in hand while staring at a canvas half-finished of royal purples and gold.

A masterpiece, yet again.

The approaching figure begins taking off his trench coat, eyes of reverence and admiration, “If only some people could learn to accept others for their differences of opinion. Jester could not, unlike you. You are the voice of our people.”

Two arms, once locked under the creature’s stomach begin stretching their muscle like dull rubber bands, upper limbs, stronger, throw the coat towards a nearby guard who immediately picks it up, bowing his head.

As he should, as they all do.

“You made this place what it is, gave us food when he turned the likes of us, of you, away. How could he be so ungrateful?” The four-armed creature now fully bare to his god steps right before the shadowed throne, arms out and proud like the eager tongues of thirsty dogs.

“The Jester,” Q finally kneels, “ignored all of your suggestions. Wouldn’t retract his words, take the money you offered that was inspired by his ideas---he refused to give you power in his circus, keeping those closest to him instead—those who betrayed you. Us.”

The figure a top his throne waves his brush lackadaisically across the canvas, another master piece created---those around him nearly drooling in admiration. This king then finally stands, nodding towards the kneeling Q before taking his canvas and handing towards a bowing guard.

“Take this drawing, spread the word,” the mysterious silver-eyed monster orders. “Jester’s likeness is rather….popular these days again….don’t you agree---hm--?”

Tilting his head, the reverent creature, the one whom Q bowed to and served all this time seemed not to recognize the person before him. A fog clouded his cold eyes, blanketing his mind of any recollection. It was almost embarrassing, if the regal beast would ever allow himself to feel such a thing in front of others. At least, not if it could work to his advantage. Twirling his paint brush in between his clawed hand, the silver-eyed monster clicks his tongue before asking:

“You—what is your name again? I swear I know it starts with a consonant, yes?”

All four arms twitched, even while kneeling, wide eyes stare at the dirty carpeted ground. He dared not question, not feel offended even as his heart believed he were more important, deserved better despite never looking at his leader in the eyes. Not once, not ever. Though Q was never one to confront those higher than he—not even an old acquaintance whose name he only dared mention in front of the silver-eyed god before him and only with venom lacing through every word.

The four-armed creature, tilted his head upward, still never looking at The Painter in the eye before responding.

“I am your humble servant, Quetzal,” his voice cracked like dried roots in the ground, “and I merely wanted to let you know that The Jester has finally arrived.”

Extravagant, or at least as much as one would expect from an old amusement park, as Jester was lead between several unoccupied booths and four guards surrounding him.

Soon, four became eight, and eight grew to sixteen, from there to thirty, and even higher after. The entrance to The Amusement Park of Terrors began with a long red carpet, one that had seen better days—dotted with black speckles and muddy shoe imprints. Despite this, Jester was somewhat impressed with the length of the carpet as it seemingly trailed all throughout the park, curving around each ride and stall as though it were naturally woven this way. Whomever created such a piece likely either did not live long enough to see it sullied this way, or simply did not care.

As Jester walked further inside, knowing where the carpet’s destination laid, a figure donned in white stood before him, eyes of silver, hair with the hues of spilled tar, and a mask so familiar that its sight alone irritated the circus leader more than he would dare visibly show. Taking an even stride, Jester lowers the cloth covering on his face as he finally faces the man whose invite made the very bugs in the ground scurry from fear.

The Painter, in all his glory waited for Jester with open arms, his long sleeves spilling to reveal spider-like gloves, and a smile far too friendly given their history. Jester noted the impertinence with internal irritation, choosing not to move any further so that the amusement park leader was forced to come to him and not the other way around.

Predictably, The Painter approaches while stretching out his clawed hand in a friendly greeting.

“It’s good to see you again, fair and wonderful Jester!”

The circus leader simply nodded towards the white-clad creature, not removing his claws from his jacket pockets. An irritating sight, and for the guards, a symbol of disrespect. Once more, Jester felt the disgust from others linger over his body in record time. Painter certainly had a talent for smelling like roses even when acting like a little shit---or at least Jester had heard Harlequin say once over dinner one evening. 

Painter drew back his hand, reaching into his pocket to take out a brush meant for ink. The familiarity of it all brought back memories Jester wished to forget, deals that were offered from old littered with fine print and arrogant greed. While twirling the brush in hand, one that strangely had wet ink continuously dripping from its tip as though like magic. A technique or mixture of inks that Jester never quite believed were as ‘amazing’ as some made it out to be. Yet there it was, drip drip drip, dots of ink fell to the already stained carpet beneath their feet. The Painter smiles narrowly towards his amethyst friend, eyes of silver, polished from the wagging tongues of his near-sighted entourage.

“Down to business,” Painter motioned for Jester to follow down the lone red carpet in which they stood. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Despite being outdoors, the amusement park felt as though it had a roof above them made of roses. Red metal rides of twisted iron and crisscross patterns of multicolored lights blocked the stars in the night sky as Jester walked down the gaudy aisle made for them. Everything around the park felt like a shrine of Painter’s clear admiration for The Jester’s work. The problem being that every totem made in the circus’s honor, every striped tent and posters showcasing ‘horror attraction’ rides and shows, were like cotton candy—an illusion that was never really there. Jester, had he the means, wondered how a lawyer would look upon the amusement park picking each and every bit that was taken from his circus’s attractions:

A poster of the “Silent Dancer” ride passed them by as well as the ship whose captain was the “Green Puppeteer of Sorrowful Stories.” The Painter, seemingly unaware of the irony as Jester’s amethyst eyes caught sight of the “Hall of Reflections” and finally: “Painter’s Gallery”—the latter of which, made the leader of the circus unable to hide his disdain, knowing exactly what was inside.

“Still showing off your many talents, I see?” Jester asked.

The Painter twirls his brush in hand, not facing his guest while donning a wide grin of his own.

“Of course! It’s all because of you that my work is as popular as it is! How could I not share it with the people, human or otherwise. They deserve to bask in your lovely form! So inspiring.”

Jester’s frown deepened, stopping his stride in front of another set of statuesque guards of gaudy colors holding candy cane spears that were far sharper than any human patron would guess. Everything felt like a wonderland at the amusement park and that was always by design. Even Jester was a tad more perturbed than he’d like to admit, though the guards (or ‘acolytes’ as Painter often called them) surrounding the two prevented him from showing this on his face.

The Jester’s jaw clenches, “Hm…Imitation and flattery and some such nonsense if I recall correctly how this all worked so well for you before.”

A pause ensues and Painter finally stops walk. Slowly, turning his head to look back at The Jester’s steady stance, he allows his amethyst-eyed companion to continue while holding his brush tight enough to crack somewhat between his claws.

“Your gallery,” Jester began, each word with the weight of coal in a stocking, “if it still has what I think it does inside, then I am….irritated…to say the least.”

The Painter, sighed with a light chuckle, “Oh? Whatever do you mean, Jes? You know, this overreaction is silly! If you’d stayed in the public eye instead of in hiding from your admirers, then my work—”

“Is the reason I stopped going to those public meetings,” the purple clown interrupts, arms behind his back while approaching the silver-eyed beast. “If you weren’t aware, you and your….’art’….are why I chose to remain absent all that time, but now…I’ve returned. And you simply don’t know how to deal with it, your shaking eyes give it all away.”

Jester smiled at this, lips narrowing as he begins circling the amusement park leader’s quivering form. It was nice to be the vulture again, even if the body he stalked wasn’t quite dead yet. A sadistic pleasure runs through the purple clown’s veins, even if he looked somewhat less intimidating in his casual attire, at the thought of Painter having less power than he realized.

“My words are starting to contradict your own to the public. Your wishes too,” Jester finally stops again, standing in front with a confident air in his manner of speaking. “Monsters have begun talking, not as many as I’d like, but they’re starting to turn against you, dear Painter.”

A whirl wind of cacophony grows as The Painter stares side to side at his guards, then Jester, then the sky nearly covered by wire and metal—back to the amethyst clown’s piercing tongue.

“How….unfortunate, that your gallery won’t be as popular as it once was because of my word against yours. It’s a matter of time before these ‘fools’, or should I say ‘suckers’ get wise. Even I might fear that outcome, if I were you.”

The surrounding guards didn’t say much, as ‘Suckers’ weren’t meant to do. Painter’s following was vast, far larger than anything Jester had dreamed his ideas could reach. Amongst the ‘Suckers’ that surrounded them were mixes of monsters and humans. Each one assigned their own personal pet of sorts, a private servant, making The Painter’s seemingly endless line of ‘Suckers’ much less intimidating knowing that every other figure was simply too drugged out to do anything of note without their handler.

The amusement Park leader gripped his brush in hand, papers rustled under the hidden pockets of his cloak—the deal he’d planned was going south, fast, and he had to stop it.

“I don’t see what I did wrong, Jester. Your work inspires me! Why shouldn’t I be owed something from the portraits I made of you? They’re mine, after all, even if it is your likeness,” The Painter waved his hand and brush, the ink spraying across the table near Jester’s gloves. “Yes, yes, I made some profit from it, but I’d be more than happy to share.”

The purple creature narrows his eyes, “Share? Yes…though by doing so, your Park would be associated with my Circus, and that sort of partnership is….not ideal at this time.”

Jester’s lips were steady and keeping to a low but even frown. Now, was the time where he must be careful; when negotiations had to be made under cool heads no matter how much he wished to claw the hackneyed artist’s throat. It wasn’t the first time Painter had wanted to use Jester’s ideas and likeness, and at first, it had been fine. Even if the purple creature had the idea of distributing human body parts to fellow monsters under the guise of special tickets, Jester hadn’t minded the amusement park’s use of similarly made ‘VIP Passes.’

Things had started to get uncomfortable however, once The Painter began painting…..him.

Jester recalled one strange morning seeing his likeness drawn next to the silver-eyed beast, hand in hand, as though the two were affiliated professionally. The many posters caused confusion, as one would expect, making the local creatures believe that anything Painter had done, Jester approved of and vice versa. Painter’s current proposal wasn’t new, even though Jester had made it clear, at least clear to him, that he had no intention of splitting control over his circus with the Amusement Park leader.

Still, it seemed that The Painter hadn’t given up on his dreams of power, though Jester could smell the beast’s desperation a mile away.

“Dear Painter,” Jester’s voice once more stayed even, eyeing the amount of ‘Suckers’ around the two, wondering how many of the monster-half once had been followers of the circus before ending up here, “I must refuse.”

A clanking sound reached through the amusement park causing the local birds to flee. One guard grabs a crow, tugging it back down and saving it under his heel for a midnight snack unbeknownst to everyone aside from the keen eyes of Jester.

The Painter’s fist lingers against a now shuddering, dented pole attached to a decrepit ride from the force of his blow; his fist next to the unblinking form of a drugged ‘Sucker’ who could no longer speak.

“Come now, are you still so stubborn, Jes?” The purple creature held back a growl at the familiar use of his name. “Why are you against me? What did I do to deserve such ire? Once we work together, I promise, it will put an end to those who doubt you! Even better if you’re able to get rid of that blue ticket seller out of the picture, who needs him anyway? All the mistrust the circus has faced will go away after you do what I say, retract your statements from before, and—

“And the fires?” Jester interrupted coldly. “Will those end too if I agree to your…terms?”

This line of questioning made The Painter paused, hand stopped in midair as a drop of ink falls from his frayed brush.

“Fires?” Painter asks. “Surely, Jester, you cannot blame only me for that. I never told Quetzal to do anything of the sort, you know how he gets. So hot-blooded that one, especially after how you and The TicketTaker betrayed his trust. Surely his anger cannot be blamed when one considers how the desert climate likely affected his judgement before coming here.”

Jester’s muscles tensed at the mention of that name, one that had been once covered in the smudge of irrelevance and time now cleaned with Painter’s words as though they were made of tarry cloth. Quetzal….Jester recalled when his old acquaintance had chosen such a name, coming from far up the Americas than the purple clown had ever visited. Talking of the beauty he’d grown up with hiding along Mexico’s mountains, and between cold, foggy forests. Places that those outside the country assumed did not exist. Quetzal never would shut up about how the food was spicier, richer, and less ‘fussy’ than where Jester hailed (much to his chagrin); comparing the deep elixir of goat’s blood to imported sherry. Far-fetched loves that would only come from those who truly loved and missed their home. Jester and Quetzal would muse about the food and folklore of his people, though even that memory was nowhere near as clear as it used to be.

As Jester expected, Painter knew little of his old ‘acquaintance’, preferring to defer blame and conclude from his own bias that Quetzal came from desert people (As though that somehow made him ‘lesser’—another rise of bile hits Jester’s throat, knowing Painter would feel this way). Idiot. Cruel. Ignoramus. Despite Painter’s horrid statement (one of many), Jester knew that even if Quetzal had heard his silver-eyed god say such a prejudiced thing, the four-armed beast would use every excuse in the book to exonerate his leader’s claims. Such is the way of blind reverence from those who mix talent with integrity—not that Jester had any room to judge given how his own ego was too fed by those saying he was extremely intelligent and cunning for his age.

A thought of happiness, so small and miniscule that Jester wonders for a moment if it was even felt, spreads through the purple creature’s mind before the flames of reality brought it all to cinders. Jester stares deeply, sunken in unsaid anger towards The Painter’s amused gaze, his mouth open full of words too low-brow to make it up through the ribbed ladders of his inhuman throat.

“Regardless, of what you did or didn’t do to curb your ‘sucker’s beliefs towards violence against my circus, my answer remains the same,” The finality in Jester’s words pierce through the ears of those around too ignorant and drowning in adoration to care.

None took Painter’s side while The Jester was around, that reality gave the circus leader confidence, even if it was somewhat fleeting. Truthfully, Jester felt and, was surrounded by a few drugged humans and star-struck beasts holding colorful spears, ready to skewer him if Painter gave the word. Everything, even in the purple clown’s own dialogue was carefully crafted to fit a certain motif. As an unspoken rule existed between monsters in hiding, one that not even Painter, as of yet, dared not entrench upon: the need to hide. Now however, was a different sort of case as there weren’t any lucid humans to cower or coerce after hours in the empty amusement park. Instead, there stood two monsters, of varying talents. Talent that even Jester had to admit, though silently, Painter had, even if he didn’t like that his portraits were still likely in the park’s gallery—making far more profit than whatever Jester could scrounge up from the fools, both in his circus and outside of it, in a month.

The thought irritated the purple clown once more…not due to jealousy or envy, necessarily, despite that Jester would be lying if he didn’t wish he had more of Painter’s business acumen, but rather it was from the immense weight of disappointment he felt from it all. From someone who claimed to admire Jester, all he did was cause more pain.

After all, it was one thing to be betrayed or disrespected by humans, yet it was a whole different world to do so with your fellow kin. Another unspoken rule, though this one The Painter often broke, even if he truly wasn’t aware of it.

“One day our people will know the truth: Why I left the public eye, why you and I will never officially work together,” Jester hummed. “Or they won’t, and you will still have your rusted throne lined with ‘suckers’ either way. To put it simply, dear Painter, there is no point for you to include me in this ‘business venture’ of yours. You never respected my wishes to be left out of it the first time you tried to pull something like this, so I have no reason to believe you’ll keep your word now.”

The Painter then straightened his back haughtily, “Ahah! So, you admit that you will lose if you try to expose me? How sad.”

“I admit that it’s pointless to fight you,” Jester’s voice reverberated low enough to shatter ice, “not that I would lose.”

If the world could hiccup, this was the moment where it happened.

Painter felt the ground beneath his feet, under the stained red carpet that ran throughout the park like the severed tongue of a giant sea serpent, foul stench and all. Jester finally turns around, no farewell said nor wave in sight. Not once did the circus leader think he wouldn’t get out of this place alive. Painter was many things, even a hypocrite and narcissist, but he wasn’t one to get blood on his hands. It was this weakness that Jester meant to exploit, one that would help him leave, even knowing that of course the park leader desired more than anything to have the last word.

“Wait!” Painter’s hand drops his brush on the messy and now ink-ridden carpet, eyes desperate, “You inspire me, Jester! You are the only thing I wish to paint, the only thing that makes my canvas sing! You owe me after all the work I’ve put into my gallery! All the time I’ve spent on you!”

Narrowing his eyes, Jester replies, “I never asked to be your muse nor have I ever desired it.”

The Painter’s eye twitched, “After all I have done for you—all the business I brought to your circus--!”

“Business?”

A needle could have been stuck in The Painter’s throat with the amount of pain he felt from the clown’s vehemency.

“You only know how to take business from me, not give it,” Jester hissed, finally turning around to face his old foe. “Or perhaps I’m wrong, as you also know how to copy—or blame. Anything I made has been from my own two hands and that of my troupe. Whatever of mine that has come out of the scraps and calloused hands of the ‘suckers’ in your park would be far too tainted to accept anything from you in good faith!”

Staring, mask to mask, the two creatures were nearly the same height making things far more intense than either had expected. Jester studied Painter’s expression noting the similar lines and patterns he’d seen in his circus coated the creature’s visage—a face that at one time, The Jester thought was unique and beautiful in its own way. Now, instead, was like his own yet distorted as though he were looking at it through a cracked mirror. How appropriate, and sad.

Nothing was original any more, not that Jester minded imitation nor flattery, but Painter took advantage of this kindness one too many times and the purple clown had enough. 

Turning around one final time Jester does not dare look at his twisted reflection any longer.

“I hope to any higher entity, should it exist, that you one day truly leave my legacy, likeness, and work on the dusty shelf of your so-called….success, Painter.”

Jester’s voice begins to fade, mixing with the heavy steps of his polished boots and worn jacket. Attire that was unbefitting a regal entity such as he, though the circus leader believed his foe to be unworthy of the effort. After all, if Painter was unwilling to change, then why should he?

“Take down those pictures of me,” Jester orders evenly, now a small dot at the end of the carpet. “I look forward to never having this conversation again. Farewell.”

The Painter’s claws tremble as he looks down at the fallen paintbrush, noting the dots of ink it left in the carpet below. His silver eyes connecting them into long continuous strands that formed Jester’s name. A dream of course, as nothing so beautiful could ever be real.

Couldn’t it?

“Psst!”

Jester blinked, stopping before a trash can whose lid rose to reveal four eyes of varying colors. Squinting at the sight, the circus leader said the monster’s name before his mind could stop to think, making the pitiful dumpster critter shudder happily against the aluminum siding of his makeshift home.

“You do remember me! Oh gosh, I can’t believe you remember!”

Jester tilted his head, “Spec, wasn’t it? Or did you finally change it?”

“Oh, but why would I?” the pathetic beast rattled in his bin, eager sparkling eyes peeking through. “I am merely a dot, dust in the wind. Nothing more than a speck, so Spec I am—I am Spec. Is good to see you. Very good-- Oh, Jester! Dear Jester! Remember that time with the tree sap and feathers? No one would have be able to unstick those posts without your help, so smart. So cool.”

The Jester rolled his eyes upon the glazing, “I assume you wanted my attention for a reason.”

The multi-colored beast, though still hidden mostly by the lid of the garbage can gurgled a half-heard apology before continuing.

“Look, Mr. Jester,” Spec began somewhat politely, “I get it, Painter has made mistakes. You’re right to be angry.”

A brow twitched as Jester felt the unsaid ‘but’ coming along in the conversation. Suddenly, a headache begins forming as the leader covers his mouth with his facemask as though trying to mask the stench his new ‘companion’ was emitting, both literal and figurative.

“He—look, Jester, I heard what yous guys were talkin’ about, I know how it seems, but he’s not a bad guy,” Spec shivered against the dented edges of the aluminum can. “if you expose him and all that he’s done to ya, which again, so bad, totally agree---but you might get him thrown out of the park if people know! Or worse! Killed!”

Jester looks at the pitiful beast up and down before walking away without another word, hands stuffed deep into his pockets. There was no point in talking to someone who defended a monster that was fine with his acolytes living amongst the trash. The worms that they were would make love with the maggots crawling over their feet, just as The Painter would depict in a beautiful piece of work every sucker would devour like the plump canckles of a well-developed human. Spec, for all that he believed he was, nothing more than a ‘speck’ of dust, represented everything that was wrong with Painter’s regime, even if he himself were too small to see it.

Though perhaps, as Jester was unaware, the true reason Spec kept his name—one time, so insignificant that it was almost poetically done, Painter saw the multicolored thing, silver eyes glowed as he approached---and called the little wretch:

‘Special.’

Sometimes, that’s all it takes: Spec….Special….Speck.

It would be a funny joke if it weren’t so common and sad.

The Amusement Park of Terror and The Freak Circus of Horrors were like two brothers, at least an outsider might assume such. Brothers that are caught in a childish, almost biblical feud. Onlookers and those outside the argument saw what they wanted to, heard what they felt was true—but they knew nothing. Not the reality behind the ink-stained curtains. Jester walks further, sighing in relief at the sight of the lit-up entrance and the end of the red carpeted floors The Painter insisted on decorating his park with.

The park and the circus….were they brothers?

Jester’s eyes narrowed at both the thought and the sudden obstacle seen standing in his way at the entrance. The purple monster then stops in his tracks, observing the figure walking towards him, fists clenched.

Quetzal approaches, yet Jester’s thoughts of brotherhood continue as though the sight were as common as water was wet.

No, the purple leader concluded internally, the Amusement Park was not the ‘brother’ of the circus but rather, merely its shadow; one that sank deeper with every lie and held up by the eager tongues lapping at whatever crumbs The Painter flicked at them with his brush. Unfortunately, much to Jester’s annoyance, he did have to admit that Painter was efficient in his sustenance. He always provided regular meals to feed his kin as well as enough paintings to trap both humans and monsters alike into his thrall.

A gallery of Jesters---their regality as beautiful as the real thing, an effective bribe to any who wished to visit the park.

People who were easy to fool, like the one who coined the term for Jester’s circus, the one who began striding still towards the leader as though he were on an outing as casual as a daily chore.

The two then face eye to eye for the first time in over a century.

However, the moment, despite being meaningful, was fleeting, as expected.

Quetzal passes him by, not saying a word. Jester sighs inwardly, disappointed at the cowardly inaction of his old acquaintance. Not a word of what did or didn’t happen, but likely many words will be exchanged, just only to the Painter. All compliments and support sprinkled between words of cruelty towards the circus like sugar in the bitterest of coffees. Some things never changed.

Finally, the air was free, the sky clear, and Jester was able to breath once more as he finally exited the park. Stretching his arms behind his head, the purple creature increased his pace, eager to leave. In his peripheral he notes among the gate that surrounded the park’s entrance a familiar pattern of a circle with two lines cutting through. For a moment, Jester pauses, wondering if he underestimated Quetzal’s importance to The Painter.

With a shrug and shake of his head, Jester continues onward, refusing to give it any more thought.

“Bil,” the purple creature stops by an alley a block or two away from the park, smile gracing his face under the cloth mask he wore, “I believe I specifically told you I could handle this on my own.”

Slowly, mismatched eyes appear in the darkness, approaching The Jester from behind before the starlight above caresses his short hair and strangely covered face.

“I didn’t want you to face this without some sort of back-up, Jester,” The TicketTaker stands next to his leader, back straightened and head down apologetically. “I will accept whatever punishment you deem necessary when we arrive back at the circus.”

“That will not be necessary, Bil. Your concern is noted and appreciated.”

The ticketer smiled at that, though the gesture was a tad uncomfortable under the silicone of his human disguise. Jester slowly then turns to him, his movements directing Bil to walk with him in stride. Glancing over at the blue creature’s disguise a mischievous glint sparkles in Jester’s eye.

Playfully, the purple clown smirks, “My my, I’m glad to see that your new suit is looking rather trim on you, old friend.”

“Jes, not now,” The ticketer mumbles bashfully as his leader laughs. “Please, tell me, what happened with Painter and….that other one…?”

Jester sighs, face calmer and turning away in mild irritation at the reminder.

“The usual, Bil. He still believes he’s done nothing wrong and uses my likeness and ideas to increase his influence and profit. If I am correct, he’s made a small fortune off of us.”

The TicketTaker simmered at those words, a blue eye glows under the clay-like molding of his disguise as he forces a smile through clenched sharpened teeth. Jester would have found the expression on his friend’s face to be adorable under any other circumstances, though for now the anger was justified, so he let it be; watching as his blue ticket seller spoke while trying to even his breathing.

“What are your orders, dear leader?”

Sighing, Jester rubbed his temple, unable to look at Bil’s eager face, “Nothing. As of now.”

The TicketTaker stopped in his tracks, eyes wide and fists clenched.

“Nothing?” The words in his mouth tasted like old copper pennies. “I—don’t understand. Shouldn’t we—forgive the impertinence, it’s not my place to question, but we simply can’t let them get away with this. Surely you know that.”

Stopping in his tracks, the purple creature turns to face his friend with a grim expression that was felt even under his doubly masked face.

“Their numbers have doubled since the last time we encountered them in Uruguay,” Jester sneered, eyes flashing as brightly as polished glass. “Their support and profits are…a problem.”

“So….what can we do, Jes?”

The Jester smiled at the nickname, happy to hear it from someone whom he respected more than anyone else the leader had ever come to know in his long life. Turning towards the blue clown, the purple creature lays a claw on his shoulder, patting him twice before walking away. His shoulders were licked with shadows, everything was in darkness, that is, until Jester looked upwards towards the sky. A small grin spreads over his masked face at the sight of stars---something that the amusement park and all it’s guised glamour and wired ceilings of cheap Christmas lights completely covered.

“Gamble,” Jester turned his head away from Bil’s shocked face, “and hope the dice roll in our favor.”

Natural beauty was truth, nature itself in both humans and monsters was as constant as change.

This was something even The Jester could not deny, and at the very least, it was this sort of universal understanding that gave the purple leader the confidence of a man who had just rigged the race for his prized horse to win. The twist? No cheating necessary—not when the seeds Jester had planted in his conversation with Painter were sure to take fruit.

Smiling, The Jester begins walking, his grin growing as he hears Bil’s eager footsteps follow.

“If Quetzal does as I expect him to,” Jester begins, “then it will be the end of Painter’s reign, once and for all. All that is needed is a spark to light the match.”

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A/N:

SO DANG. I got two new OCs??? Weird. Never thought I'd care enough to do this. Also, below is a full picture of Q aka: Quetzal. And no, he doesn't look much like the mythological creature because like his role in this story: he isn't as important as he thinks he is. Q may have named himself after a god, but he does not have an impressive look---that belongs to Painter.

Enjoy~ Hope you guys like my OCs! Will I draw Spec? not sure tbh