Harley Quinn: Maestro of Pranks by Jade Gretz

https://www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai/art/Harley-Quinn-Maestro-of-Pranks-1234614290?file=1

Harley Quinn: Maestro of Pranks ANIMATION

Carnival of Shattered Glass

Music drifted through the iron bars of the abandoned rail yard, a weeping calliope tune that played backward and smelled of burnt sugar. Harley Quinn adjusted the cuffs of her red and black leather jacket, her twin pigtails damp with the midnight fog. She had followed the rumors of a circus that appeared only when the moon was hidden, a traveling troupe that left behind empty beds and echoing laughter. The wrought-iron gates standing before her belonged to a place that did not exist on any map of Gotham.

She slipped through a rusted gap in the fence, her boots making no sound on the wet pavement. The fog parted, revealing the midway. Tents of bruised purple and decaying crimson velvet breathed in the damp air. Strings of Edison bulbs hummed with a sickly yellow electric pulse, casting elongated shadows that seemed to twitch independently. Harley spun her favorite wooden mallet, feeling the comforting, heavy weight of it. She loved a good show, but the atmosphere here felt heavy, thick with a malice that made the hair on her arms stand up.

"Welcome, little bird, to the perimeter of your deepest dread," a voice purred from the shadows of a ticket booth.

Harley leaned against the handle of her mallet, popping a piece of bubblegum into her mouth. "Dread? Honey, my deepest dread is running out of hair dye in the middle of a touch-up. Who's hiding in the dark? Come out and let a girl see the whites of your eyes."

A figure unfolded from the booth. He was too tall, his limbs stretching like pulled taffy. He wore a ringmaster’s coat that gleamed like a wet oil slick. His face was painted in stark, blinding white, but the red smile was not makeup. It was a jagged wound, pinned at the corners by rusty hooks. His eyes were entirely black, weeping a thick, dark substance that stained his frilled collar.

"I am the Master of Ceremonies," the creature whispered, his voice sounding like dry leaves skittering across a tombstone. "And you, sweet fragile thing, are the evening's main attraction. We have been waiting for a mind as beautifully fractured as yours."

Harley smiled, a slow, predatory curve of her lips. She sauntered forward, swaying her hips with a practiced, hypnotic rhythm. She stopped just inches from the towering monstrosity, looking up through her lashes. "Fractured? I prefer the term 'creatively arranged,' tall, dark, and gruesome. And if I’m the main attraction, I hope you brought better snacks than stale popcorn."

She reached up, her gloved finger trailing down the creature's lapel. The Ringmaster shuddered, clearly unaccustomed to prey that flirted with the predator. His black eyes widened slightly as Harley leaned in, her breath tickling his unnatural chin.

"You smell like ozone and old pennies," she murmured, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "It's intoxicating. Tell me, what kind of act do you have in mind for me?"

"A dance of shadows," the Ringmaster breathed, mesmerized by her complete lack of fear. "A symphony where you scream the highest notes."

"How romantic," Harley giggled. Then, with the speed of a striking viper, she brought her heavy boot down squarely on his unnaturally long foot. As he gasped, she swung the mallet upward in a brutal arc, catching him under the jaw.

The Ringmaster flew backward, crashing into the ticket booth in an explosion of splattered wood and glass. Instead of blood, a cloud of iridescent dust puffed into the air.

"But I lead," Harley chirped, blowing a pink bubble and letting it snap. She hoisted the mallet over her shoulder and strolled deeper into the midway. "Showtime, freaks."

The carnival responded to the assault. The discordant music swelled, transforming from a mournful dirge into a frenzied, chaotic waltz. The tents began to ripple. From the shadows of the funhouse, the shadows of the rusted Ferris wheel, and the dark flaps of the freak show, they emerged.

They were clowns, but only in the most nightmarish interpretation of the word. They crawled on all fours, their joints bending backward. Their skin was the texture of porcelain, cracked and seeping black fluid. Oversized ruffled collars framed faces that possessed far too many eyes. Some had smiles painted in blood; others had jaws that unhinged like serpents, revealing rows of translucent, needle-like teeth.

"Oh, look," Harley said, a genuine thrill of adrenaline rushing through her veins. "The welcoming committee. I gotta say, the makeup is a little derivative, boys. And
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