Hukarballa stepped boldly into the open, cape iridescent as oil in gutter water, bells on his crown silent yet impossibly heavy. His costume radiated yellow, blue, and red, stitched with erratic dots and stripes—a broken memory of joy warped by dread. He paused beneath a streetlamp, every detail visible, not a shadow to hide him.
Eyes darted toward Hukarballa, curiosity battling caution. Children peered from behind stalls, giggling at the colors, unaware of the tension. Adults hesitated, drawn by spectacle, repelled by something deeper—a feeling that the show was not safe. "Clowns are supposed to make you laugh," his voice floated, soft and theatrical, reaching the crowd like an invitation and a warning.
Witnesses whisper conflicting descriptions—tall or average, loud or silent. Yet all eyes fixate on the colors, the cape, the smile painted too calm. Hukarballa holds his bat loosely, never threatening, every gesture deliberate. Children sketch him in chalk on the pavement: a clown with a bat, a smile that lingers, bells that never ring.
Hukarballa steps closer, his grin stretching beyond the paint. "So why are you crying?" The question hangs in the humid air, shattering the illusion of joy. He never swings wildly; every movement is ceremonial, a ritual only he understands. The fear is not in his weapon, but in the waiting.
The task force closes the case after years of silence. No arrests, no bodies. But rumors persist: colored footprints leading nowhere, bats left in empty wings, and a strange, low laugh—half amusement, half disappointment—echoing after every show. Psychologists debate the spread of his legend, but children add details no adult could know.
Hukarballa was never hiding. He was waiting—waiting for the audience to feel safe, for the show to begin again. And as the performers step into the light, somewhere in the crowd, a laugh rides the tail of applause: slower, closer, unforgettable. The jester always returns when the world believes itself beyond fear.
