SON OF BATMAN

Laughter and cheers erupted in chaotic waves, filling the air with rowdy celebration. The clinking of glasses and the raucous shouts of victory mixed with the sound of chairs scraping across the floor. The acrid smell of cheap whiskey and stale cigarettes hung heavy in the air, a fitting atmosphere for Gotham's underbelly to celebrate their darkest victory.

"To the Bat! May he rot in hell!" one thug shouted, raising his glass.

The room roared in response. Criminals of all kinds filled the dimly lit bar, their faces alight with unrestrained glee. For years, Batman had been a looming figure of terror, a force that disrupted their lives. But now, with the news of his death, they felt invincible.

The bar was a den of infamy, its walls adorned with wanted posters and newspaper clippings chronicling Gotham's dark underbelly. The air was thick with smoke and the acrid smell of cheap booze, a fitting atmosphere for the city's most notorious criminals. Empty bottles littered the sticky tables, and the smoke-stained ceiling bore silent witness to countless criminal dealings.

"Twenty years of hiding in the shadows like rats... and now he's dead!" another crook hollered, slamming his fist on the bar in triumph. "We own this city now! It's Gotham's real turn to shine!"

"Yeah!" shouted a burly man with a thick scar across his cheek. He raised his bottle high in the air. "No more lookin' over our shoulders, boys! No more Bat signal flashing in the sky. Gotham's ours again!"

The celebration grew more frenzied with each passing minute. Mobsters who normally wouldn't be caught dead in the same room now shared drinks and laughed together. Two-bit thugs clinked glasses with professional hitmen. Tonight, they were united in their jubilation over the fall of their common enemy.

More criminals joined in, some standing on chairs, others clinking glasses and laughing maniacally. They toasted to the death of their greatest enemy, reveling in their newfound sense of freedom. As the celebration grew louder with every passing moment, the glee grew along with it becoming contagious.

The euphoria was palpable, a twisted carnival of relief and anticipation. Years of fear and frustration were being released in a single night of unbridled celebration.

"You hear that?" one thug jeered, knocking back his drink. "No one left to stop us now! We can do whatever the hell we want, wherever we want, whenever we want!"

Another voice, rough with years of chain-smoking, rasped from the back. "Whoever thought a freak dressed like a bat could control the whole damn city? He thought he was invincible. Well, look at him now, rottin' six feet under, just like the rest of us."

The criminals howled with laughter at the morbid joke. Years of fear and frustration were being released in a single night of unbridled celebration. They shouted over one another, raising their glasses in a chaotic toast to their newfound freedom from the Bat's ever-watchful eyes. Some were already planning their next heists, while others simply reveled in the feeling of freedom from the shadow that had haunted them for so long. The room buzzed with a sense of victory, of release.

In one corner, a group of thugs gathered, chuckling darkly over their drinks. "So... what do we do now?" one of them asked with a smirk. "Gotham's wide open, boys. Time to start taking it for ourselves."

Another thug leaned in, grinning wickedly. "First thing we do is take back those streets. Batman kept us in check for too long. Now, we take everything."

"Everything burns," another added with a malicious grin. "No more rules, no more limits. Gotham's gonna remember what real chaos feels like."

The cheers grew louder, the sense of triumph spreading like wildfire.

But amidst the celebration, tucked away in a dark corner of the bar, a figure sat hunched over a small table, a half-empty glass of whiskey in front of him. His once-pristine purple suit was now wrinkled and stained, the fabric dulled by days of wear. The green hair that had struck terror into countless victims now hung limp and unkempt over his forehead.

The figure's face was hidden by the shadows, but the streaks of green hair, now matted, hung loosely over his forehead. His hand, adorned with a single black glove, trembled slightly as he reached for his drink, the ice clinking against the glass.

The cheers and laughter continued around him, but cutting through the noise came a different sound, a soft, broken sob.

At first, no one paid attention, but soon the sobbing grew louder. The criminals nearest to him stopped laughing, their smiles fading as they turned toward the source of the unsettling noise.

The wails grew stronger, more desperate, broken, guttural sounds that seemed to carry all the weight of loss within them. It was unmistakable, a man was crying. And not just crying, but wailing. Heartbroken, guttural wails that seemed utterly out of place in the midst of celebration.

One of the thugs, annoyed by the disruption, finally shouted, "Hey, what's the matter with you? Why're you cryin' like that?"

The figure lifted his head slowly, revealing a face that had haunted Gotham's nightmares for decades. The white makeup was smeared and running, black tears streaming down his cheeks, leaving trails through the pale foundation. His trademark red smile was smudged and crooked, giving him an even more grotesque appearance than usual.

"He's gone," the figure whimpered, his voice barely above a whisper. "He's really... gone."

The thug sneered, confused. "We all know that, man! They just announced it. But why you cryin'? I thought you'd be celebrating like the rest of us!"

The figure's eyes flickered with recognition, but not anger. Instead, they were filled with sadness, an emotion that seemed completely alien to his twisted features. He hiccupped, wiping his eyes messily with his sleeve, smearing his makeup even more.

"The Bat... the Bat's gone," the man cried, his voice breaking. "Don't you get it? How can you not get it? He's... he's really gone this time."

The thug, bewildered by the Joker's sudden display of emotion, furrowed his brow. "What the hell are you talkin' about?"

The bar fell silent, the celebration dying as quickly as a candle in a storm. The sight of their most feared fellow criminal breaking down had sucked all the joy from the room. Some shifted uncomfortably in their seats, while others stared, transfixed by this display of raw emotion from a man they'd thought incapable of anything but cruelty. The atmosphere once full of laughter and cheers, fell into an uneasy silence. The criminals exchanged confused glances, unsure of how to react to this display.

The figure, clearly drunk, took another swig from his glass, nearly spilling it as his hand shook.

"He was... my fun," the figure continued, his voice cracking. "My game. Every time I got out, every time I did something, there he was. Right behind me. Always there, chasing me... stopping me. But now..." He trailed off, staring into his glass as if it held the answers.

A heavy, choked sob escaped his throat as he slammed the glass down on the table, the whiskey splashing over the edge.

"Now there's no one left," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "No one to play with."

Another thug, still trying to make sense of it all, ventured cautiously, "You... you're talkin' about Batman?"

The figure's head snapped up, his bloodshot eyes wide and wild. A twisted smile curled on his lips, but the tears still flowed freely. He let out a broken laugh, half-crazed, half-sorrowful.

"Yes, you idiot, Who else could I be talking about?" he spat. "I am talking about Batman. My Batman! And now..." He paused, taking a deep breath as if trying to hold himself together. "Now he's gone. And it's not funny anymore."

His words hung in the air, and for a brief moment, the criminals didn't know what to do. Some shifted uncomfortably in their seats, while others stared, unsure of how to handle the sight of the madman who had terrorized Gotham for years now crying.

With a shaky hand, the figure picked up his drink again, staring into the amber liquid. "What am I supposed to do now?" he muttered to himself, more to the drink than to anyone in the room.

The bar remained silent as his sobs echoed softly through the room. But just as the tension reached its peak, something shifted in the figure's posture. Like a switch being flipped, the figure's demeanor shifted. His shoulders shook, but now with something different. The sorrow that had consumed him moments before began to twist and contort into something darker. His trembling lips slowly curved upward, no longer in grief but in a familiar, terrifying smile.

At first, it was a low chuckle, barely audible. Then, the chuckle grew, bubbling up from deep within his chest, transforming into a deranged giggle.

The thugs around him started to shift nervously in their seats as the figure's laughter grew louder, more erratic.

Suddenly, the man threw his head back and let out a full, maniacal laugh, loud, shrill, and uncontrollable. His body convulsed with each burst of laughter, the sound filling the room like a mad symphony.

"Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Haha! Hahaha!" he cackled, his voice rising in pitch. "Hahahahahaha! Hahahahahahahahaha! Hahahahahahahahaha!"