Deep within Cirque Du Noir, where the sun shines cold and all light is black, a hooded figure prances on the pavement. Under it’s grey cloak, a clown outfit can be seen, sending sparkling shadows sprawling through the street, a warning that the PoPolice is nigh.

The dancing officer’s eyes dart into tents and bleachers- where the population are sleeping. His scrutiny is a spotlight, any individual unlucky enough to find themself on centre stage, best say his final joke. The officer’s clown shoes dip into puddles of confetti, the white, grey and black scraps of fabric fly up into the air, before dying there and then, falling abruptly to the cold stone floor.

A distant laugh breaks the silence. The officer stops his muse and stands still, listening. Minutes pass, the officer refuses to begin his dance again until the suspect is in shackles. The laugh splits the stillness once again, the officers head spinning towards the Big Top. Someone had stayed up a bit too late.

The officer begins to stride towards the noise, soon, the stride turns to a skip, then a shuffle, and soon, a dance; fast approaching the laugh’s origin, like a bullet, ready to return justice.

The officer spins past a signpost, and plastered on it, torn posters, blowing in the midnight breeze.

“WANTED: CYMBALS THE JESTER

CRIME: LAUGHING

REWARD: £5,000”

It read. The officer sped on towards the entrance to the Big Top.

Unaware at the oncoming danger, a hushed group of dressed-up fools sat around a table. They were crowded around cards and buttons.

“Your move, Cymbals.” One clown spoke with a deep drone. He slides three Joker cards towards his opposition.

His opponent takes a moment, studying the play, contemplating whether to retaliate, or play it safe.

“Alright, we ain’t got all night!” The gruff voice starts again. The other players chuckle and jeer at the hesitant opponent. They fall silent when he starts his turn. His gloved fingers place down five Jokers from his deck.

“That all you got?” The players giggle again.

The opponent chucks five red buttons to the stage.

Stunned, everyone turns to the opponent.

“Cymbals…” One player starts.

“He’s won” Another chirps.

Before long, the crowd of fools erupts into cheers and laughter, knocking the game to the floor. Buttons are sent scattered across the dimly lit room, and cards soar in the air.

“CYMBALS WINS THE TOURNAMENT” An announcer boisterously bellows.

“ENOUGH TO PAY OFF YOUR BOUNTY” Another guffaws.

BANG! The door to the room flies off its hinges, a hooded figure stands menacingly.

The crowd immediately goes mute.

The officer’s eyes scan the floor. Cards, buttons, pom-poms, confetti… the lot. Worth 10 lifetimes in jail at the least, not including the laughing.

“You sad jokes are in trouble” The officer chooses his words carefully. Gangs aren’t common, but they’re nasty.

“Who here was laughing?”

The group looks around, accusing one another with their pupils, dilated from fear.

“Cymbals” One braves a response.

“That the one worth five grand?” The officer returns.

“He’s here”

The gruff clown shoves his opponent forward. A jester dressed in deep red stumbles into the spotlight.