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When the Joker was born, his parents always knew that he was destined for greatness.
Their definition, however, of greatness was less that they thought he would go far in life and more that they could line their pockets with money from him. Even as a baby, he was just pitiful— and with talks of a traveling circus, they knew exactly what they could do with him. Being given the name Joker at birth was just a part of the cruel gift of life they had given him. It was ensured that Joker knew that when he came of age he would be taken to the circus to make his family a little more money. The plan was simple: send their pathetic little boy across the next time the circus came around to town and yearly he was expected to give them half of his paychecks. He grew up lonely. No friends, as his parents didn’t permit it. No company, as they didn’t want him to see beyond the facade they had fed him. To Joker, his family was poor and came from a long line of performers— a sneaky way of being told his parents were con artists and he, their own kin, was to be the biggest (and best) con yet. But to sell the act, they needed him to believe it wholeheartedly. If he knew the truth, it wouldn’t be convincing enough. When he came of age, after years of perfecting and practicing tricks in front of his unloving parents, the three of them booked the first ticket they could across town.
Hullabaloo in big bright lights, Hullabaloo in the big ol' tent. Come on and join the Hullabaloo!" echoed Joker's fate, as bills exchanged hands. Hullabaloo, Hullabaloo, Hullabaloo.
A word that suited that circus, whether Joker knew it or not at the time.
Like the uproar of his new home, Joker was a hit. His face was naturally born to be the Weeping Clown, that's what they all said. His parents, Mr. Bernard ( "Oh, just Bernard is fine! We're all a family here, Joker!" He'd insist, as the little blonde twerp clinging to his leg would laugh.) "Wouldn't the irony of a smiling clown on such a pathetic face be much better?" he tried to argue once, shut down by Bernard's raised hand ( "You were born for this. I paid good money for that frown." ) While Joker wanted to protest against this role, the way everyone smiled and laughed at— no, cheered — him changed his mind. Besides, it was better to play along than to resist… right? For a while he was loved, even if it meant poor treatment from backstage. Even if it meant that the laughter was at him and never with him. Even if it meant putting up with the ringmaster’s irritating son with the ego of a sea of shining stars. Perhaps being complicit wasn’t so bad, if it meant finding a facsimile of the love and attention he craved for years.
And then there came Sergei.
Sergei was a handsome fellow. Far more handsome than Joker. His tricks and performances brought people joy, the sort of joy that came with laughing along with somebody's joke rather than laughing at somebody('s joke)— a harlequin, they called him. He was awarded the title of Smiling Clown immediately, and his tricks began to overshadow Joker’s. Joker was never a fan; not when he overtook his fame, not when he overtook his shows. Shouldered, both in the literal and metaphorical, by Sergei on the daily... Joker hated it. But he remained complicit in the change. Less attention didn’t mean any attention, and it just meant he had to work harder for the crowds. That was fine! It was fine! It would all be just fine!
That shadow suffocated him no matter where they went, segmenting a new trend; anything Joker wanted? Sergei got. All Joker had to do was wish for it to himself, and the forces of divine comedy would strike and re-gift that wish to the other clown; Joker hated it. Sergei got everything. Sergei got everyone. They had gone to this fishing village once, stayed for a few weeks. Sergei came back with the most beautiful woman in town; probably the most beautiful woman Joker had ever seen. She'd come and sit backstage, every now and again, sneaking around with the harlequin during their performing days. And when it came time for the circus to travel elsewhere, that woman stayed with Sergei and they were wedded in the tents.
And Joker hated it.
Natalie was perhaps the most perfect woman he’d ever known. She was smart, sweet, and beautiful. Very beautiful– like the true actress she aspired to be (even if her performance was deemed clunky by everyone else around her, Joker didn't see any difference.) Everything she did had grace, whether it be taming the lions or dancing on stage, and Joker couldn’t help but fall for her with each passing day. She was talented and everything Joker could have dreamed of. And most importantly: Natalie was kind. And not the usual type of kind either, she was kind to him. Natalie gave him the time of day, unlike most anyone else in that circus– from his shadows, her dim light gave him just a quiet hope. Enough to light embers in his chest, enough to hold on if it meant holding on for her.
Of course, the one thing that deterred him was Sergei. After all it was wrong for Joker to fall for a married woman. It was especially wrong for Joker to fall for Sergei's married woman. Life was purposefully antagonizing him– oh, they just seemed so perfect, a handsome fellow and his beautiful gal. Sergei would have Natalie dance with him, alongside the other dancers, and Natalie would tame the lions in his favor. Joker forced himself to watch, despite the pain, holding plucked flowers behind his back. "Love me-love me nots" didn't matter, no matter how many times he childishly indulged in them; she wasn't his. She was Sergei's perfect bride.
But perfect on the outside doesn’t mean perfect on the inside.
Joker overheard Sergei’s shouts one night as he passed by the tent. One peak through the curtains and Joker was met with the ugly visage of that harlequin with a bottle in one hand and the other hand raised against the cowering beauty before him. Joker could only watch in horror the way she cried for Sergei to calm down, the way she begged for him to put the bottle down and go to bed for the night, the way Sergei disobeyed her fears and continued; throwing her across the room, throwing bottles against her turned back. It was horrible. Sergei was horrible. Joker broke away from the sight, as things grew louder, not wanting to be caught; he hadn't an idea what to do, but surely someone will bring it up come the morning. They were loud, surely someone else heard. Come morning, through the other clowns, he learned that Sergei had always been this way; he had always been a little rough on all the girls he worked with, only getting worse now that he had one to truly call his own. The other performers murmured back and forth that there was “nothing to be done” and that it was “most unfortunate.” They had simply heard it through the vine, but they had chosen to be complicit– there’s no reason to involve yourself in trouble that isn’t yours, you can’t afford that in a place like Hullabaloo.
Complicit. How shameful... but that's what Joker chose too. He was just as shameful as the rest.
Natalie came to him, nights later, asking him for his help. It had to have been long after Sergei finally fell asleep, her wounds fresh. Joker dressed her wounds and held back his tears. It was awful– and it became a pattern; had it not been for the violence that enabled it, Joker would almost say he preferred it. To be trusted in, confided in, needed. Natalie would arrive wounded, or call Joker to her tent; Joker would dress her wounds, then sit with her until she was ready to fall asleep. (He wasn't allowed to walk her back to her tent, Sergei couldn't know. Sergei shouldn't know. He'd take it the wrong way, he'd make it worse.) And every time, every single time, she defended him. Despite how much that monster had hurt her. “Better me than anyone else!” Natalie would say, and Joker would have to keep himself from telling her “Better nobody, especially not you.” “It was just the alcohol”, she would say. “Oh, he has had such a hard day, and he never means it. He always makes up for it!” Natalie was lying to herself, and he knew it. He knew she knew it. Trying to fix the broken image displayed in front of them. Oh, poor Natalie. This perfect picture Joker had of them had been shattered, and nothing she could say to him would be able to repair it– nothing anyone could say could shake that enraged feeling, as he watched from the shadows. The way Sergei treated everyone begun to stick out then, the way he spoke about anyone in that damned place made Joker think twice about ever considering him handsome. Oh, it made Joker so angry. Joker wanted to take revenge and give him what he deserved, but Natalie forbade it– begging him to not do anything, begging to leave it be. And thus… Joker listened. Joker kept quiet– respecting her wishes to the best of his ability, enduring night after night of her agony.
Until the excuse of closed doors expired, that is. Once things leave the private eye it becomes fair game to criticism. The dreaded day came, one way or another Joker suspected he'd get bold. And bold Sergei got. He remembers it all so clearly.
Sergei wasn’t under any influence.
Natalie made a small mistake in their routine. Joker just so happened to be around to witness it.
Natalie stumbled,
Natalie apologized,
Natalie offered to try again– fear shook at the edges of her words, promising to make up for the mistake.
And within that span of those three seconds, Sergei’s hand had raised and Sergei had hit her. Sergei had hit her with not one ounce of alcohol in his system. And, most importantly, Sergei had hit her in front of everyone. Joker couldn’t handle himself, then, emerging from the shadows as fury painted his face as red as his hair.
He was tired of being complicit. If nobody would do anything for him, the least he could do was do something for her.
Joker didn’t win that fight.
And nobody had his back.
Not even Natalie.
Even when she pulled Sergei off of Joker, she continued to usher that it was okay. Everything was okay. It was an accident.
The crowds all murmured to one another—
how rash of him to act.
It wasn’t his place to get into the business of a married couple.
How strange it was to defend another man’s woman.
How out of line he was to do that.
Sergei certainly didn’t forgive him after that.
Joker and Sergei had never gotten along before but after that day? Saying that Sergei was outright cruel to him was an understatement . Joker’s acts got cut more and more– and any remaining acts involving Joker hurt tenfold more than they were supposed to, Sergei would ensure that his humor was less in good fun and more in humiliation. No one would have his back then, either. Not when Sergei practically slapped out a tooth; not when Sergei kicked the wind from his ribs; not when Sergei's heel came crashing to snap his prosthetic in two.
And when Joker finally fought back? When Joker had enough of his treatment?
Joker found that Sergei would make sure he never showed his face around the circus again. Never did they prove it was him, but Joker knew. It had to be. That awful laughing that echoed, as white paint eroded at his fingers; as his face eroded into the worst pain of his life. Worse than any beating or heartbreak. All in a matter of minutes, his makeup had been cursed to ruin him.
Sergei watched and Sergei laughed as Joker writhed in pain.
As Joker screamed out for help.
As Joker cried, collapsing outside of the tent.
Joker was terminated that same night; Bernard decided that he wasn't worth the trouble anymore.
And not one person had his back.
Left with no home to turn to and not a single shoulder to lean on, Joker took refuge at a nearby inn, face bloody and swollen– wrapping and covering it with anything he could get his hands on. And he drank. And drank. And drank. Until he was sick. Until he was numb. Staring at the bottle in his hands, an idea crossed his mind: sinister as it was, it was the truth to his shattered heart. Everyone at that cursed place deserved to die for what they have done– for what they didn’t do, for what they could have done. If Joker’s face was left to get disfigured… then who was next? Natalie? Even as she turned her back on him, Joker chases after that trust– he had to do something, he had to do it fast. Since everyone else in that circus was too damned cowardly… Joker hastily crafted his plan.
What a hullabaloo it was, that night. In a drunken rage, fueled by years of pain, he lit a fire. And in that same drunken rage, he went to find Sergei— anyone who got in his way was slaughtered. All were found dead at the scene except for two: the now lone dancer who was found near the river, seemingly spared from the whole mess in her attempts to get away from it all; and the acrobat, who had been lucky enough to miss the whole thing.