The Joker pulled open his purple tuxedo.
Inside that green vest were hung things that weren't grenades or explosives.
Instead, rows and rows of... "Superhero Energy Drinks" produced by Vought International, counting down the days.
However, all those beverage cans had detonators attached to the pull tabs.
"You..."
O'Shea's knife stopped in mid-air.
"Bang!"
The Joker did not detonate it.
He just mouthed the words.
The Homelander that had rolled onto the ground suddenly exploded.
A green gas spread rapidly.
The nerve gas, though diluted, was still effective enough to leave these ordinary people with an unforgettable experience.
Cough cough cough!!
My eyes!
O'Shea, who was closest, clutched his throat and collapsed to the ground, frantically scratching his face until his nails dug into his flesh, drawing blood.
The others also began coughing violently, with tears and snot streaming down their faces, and lost their ability to fight.
Only Wesley held his breath and retreated to the vicinity of the ventilation opening immediately.
The Joker emerged from the green, poisonous fog.
He was wearing a gas mask that he had somehow produced, and the mask was painted with a big smiley face.
He hummed a little tune as he walked over to Turk, who was rolling on the ground, and picked up a pistol that had fallen to the ground.
"It seems everyone is tired and needs a rest."
The Joker shoved the gun into Turk's mouth.
"Shh."
"Now, listen to me."
The Joker turned around and looked at Wesley, who was hiding in the corner.
Even through the gas mask, Wesley felt that crazed gaze fixed on him.
Tell that fat guy.
The Joker's voice, filtered through the mask, became muffled and eerie.
This city doesn't need order.
"This city is like a child who has been suppressed for too long; it yearns for chaos, yearns for release."
" Vought can't give it happiness, Kingpin."
"But I can."
"Bang!"
A burst of blood erupted from the back of Turk's head.
The Joker pulled a throwing knife from his pocket and tossed it casually.
"Do!"
The throwing knife grazed Wesley's cheek and embedded itself in the wall behind him.
A playing card was stuck in the blade.
It's a Joker card.
But beneath that Joker card, there's a drawing of a fat man in a white suit being roasted over a fire.
"Hehehe... Tonight is just an appetizer. The party won't truly begin until that white ivory tower is dyed red."
The Joker removed his mask and blew a kiss to Wesley.
Goodbye, four-eyed guy.
He turned and jumped into the ice cream truck.
The truck roared, reversed, ran over two still-convulsing bodies, and then sped away to the sound of a children's song.
All that remained was a room full of screaming gang leaders, poisoned, and a scene of utter chaos.
Wesley pulled the throwing knife off the wall.
His hands were trembling.
This is more than just a provocation.
This is a declaration of war.
A challenge to the true emperor of Hell's Kitchen.
Wesley took out his phone, his finger hovering over that familiar number.
He took a deep breath of the toxic air and pressed the call button.
"Sir... we're in trouble."
" Wesley."
Fisk's voice did not rise.
"I'm here, sir."
Wesley's voice was broken and trembling, a sign that neurotoxins were eroding his nerve endings.
" Turk is dead... O'Shea... is trying to gouge his own eyeballs out... that madman... he's provoking..."
"I'm asking you," Fisk interrupted him, "How are you?"
There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone.
"I'm alright... I didn't inhale much... but he left a card... that was..."
That's a declaration of war.
Fisk hung up the phone.
Apply force with your fingers.
"Click."
The phone turned into a Spark mass of scrap metal and broken plastic in his palm.
He stood up, his massive body blocking out all the moonlight streaming in through the French windows.
Vanessa.
Fisk spoke to the empty restaurant without turning around.
An elegant woman emerges from the Shadow.
She wasn't alarmed by the crushed phone; instead, she picked up a napkin and gently wiped the fragments from Fisk's hands.
"That Joker?" Vanessa asked softly.
He's testing my limits.
"It's not just provocation; he's showcasing his work."
Vanessa stroked Fisk's large hand.
"That Joker turned violence into art. He splattered paint on the canvas of Hell's Kitchen, and you were the blank space he most wanted to paint over."
Art needs viewers. A madman only needs a funeral.
Fisk withdrew his hand and pressed the communication button under the table.
Where is he?
The receiver carried the sound of potato chips being chewed, accompanied by the crisp sound of coins flipping between fingers.
" Tenth Avenue, a private gallery called ' Van Gogh.' If your sophisticated girlfriend recently ordered a painting called ' Rabbit in a Blizzard,' I suggest you hurry up and send me the money. Because there's a guy with bright red lipstick standing in front of that painting with a can of gasoline."
Fisk's breath caught in his throat for a moment.
That was Vanessa's favorite painting.
It was also the vehicle he used to launder 30 million yuan of illicit funds.
"Cut him into pieces."
Fisk hung up the call and grabbed his white suit jacket from the back of his chair.
"Prepare the car."
Tenth Avenue, Van Gogh Gallery.
This is an enclave of Hell's Kitchen and a core node in Kingpin's money laundering network.
Normally it's so quiet you could hear a pin drop, but right now it's as lively as a cheap circus.
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 'Chaos' art exhibition!
The Joker stood on that priceless reception desk, clutching a large megaphone he'd stolen from somewhere.
He changed his hat.
A Joker hat with bells jingled as he moved.
The gallery's security personnel were tied up and suspended from the Crystal chandelier on the ceiling.
Their mouths were stuffed with brightly colored balls, and they could only let out mournful whimpers.
Look at this painting!
The Joker jumped off the stage, his mud-covered leather shoes leaving a trail of black footprints on the expensive Persian carpet.
He walked up to the pure white painting, " Rabbit in a Blizzard ".
"White! So boring!"
The Joker pulled a can of red spray paint from his pocket.
"Laugh--"
He drew a smiley face on that pure white surface.
Red paint flowed down the canvas, like a bleeding wound.
"This is a masterpiece! This is the true meaning of life!"
The Joker dropped the spray paint can, turned to look at the security captain hanging in mid-air, and exaggeratedly spread his hands.
"Captain? Oh, sorry, you have my ball in your mouth."
"Splash!"
The gallery's glass windows suddenly shattered.
An ordinary 25-cent coin shattered the glass, grazed the Joker's nose, and embedded itself deeply in the center of the recently destroyed painting.
It hit the center of the red smiling face's forehead.
The Joker touched the tip of his nose, his eyes widening excitedly, his eyes painted with black eyeshadow.
"Oh ho! Looks like some knowledgeable critics have entered the fray!"
A man dressed in a black and white battle suit leaned against the window, toying with a deck of cards in his hand.
He has a white concentric circle mark on his forehead, like a target.
Bullseye.
Your makeup is messed up.
Bullseye raised his hand and casually waved it, sending three playing cards flying.
The three pieces of paper traced eerie arcs through the air, cutting through the fabric.
A blade aimed at the Joker's throat.
A heart sliced into the Joker's.
The last one goes straight for the lowest level.
Wow! What a fierce critic!
The Joker let out a strange cry and his body folded backward as if it had no bones.
"Do! Do! Do!"
All three playing cards were nailed to the wall behind him, embedded three-tenths of an inch into the wall.
It seems you don't like my painting.
The Joker straightened up and shook out a... yo-yo? from his wide purple sleeve.
It was a children's yo-yo with a picture of Homelander printed on it.
"Then try this! Homelander Spin!"
The Joker tossed the toy he was holding.
The yo-yo, with its thin alloy thread attached, didn't fly towards the Bullseye, but instead got tangled up in the chandelier overhead.
Pull hard.
"Boom!"
The chandelier, along with the security guard hanging from it, crashed down.
Glass shards flew everywhere.
Bullseye frowned.
He hates chaos.
He likes precision and the sense of order that comes from having everything under control.
The Joker, bouncing around like a flea, filled him with a physical aversion.
"Die."
Bullseye pulled four pencils from his waist.
He rushed into the smoke and dust.
No line of sight is required.
He could hear the sound of the bell.
That's a moving bullseye.
"Jingle."
left.
Bullseye.
Two pencils shot out.
"Puff."
That was the sound of a sharp weapon piercing flesh.
But what followed was not a scream, but a muffled thud.
The smoke and dust cleared.
The Joker wasn't there.
The hat with the bell was hung on the backside of a security guard.
The unfortunate security guard had two pencils stuck in his thigh, and he was kicking his legs in pain, making the bells ring erratically.
You guessed wrong!