Elias and Sarah stepped through the velvet curtains, the smell of burnt sugar and stale popcorn thick in the air.

In the center of the ring stood Jackor the Joker.

He was a spindly tower of a man, dressed in a suit of mismatched neon patches. He didn't walk; he skittered, his limbs moving with the fluid, unnatural grace of a spider. A permanent, painted-on leering grin stretched across his face, but his eyes—wide and yellow—never blinked.

"Step up! Step up!" Jackor shrieked, his voice sounding like broken glass in a blender. He began to dance, a frantic, rhythmic jig that ended with him pulling a massive, three-foot-long crayon from a holster on his back.

It was labeled "Grateful Grape." "Needs more... depth!" Jackor giggled. He pressed the tip of the crayon against a blank canvas, but as he drew, the "wax" didn't flake. It smeared. It was wet, chunky, and smelled of iron. Elias squinted, his stomach turning as he realized the purple hue wasn't pigment—it was oxygen-depleted muscular tissue, ground into a paste and molded into a cylinder.

Jackor stopped dancing. He sniffed the air, his head snapping toward the couple.

"Oh," he whispered, the grin widening until the corners of his mouth touched his ears. "My palette is so... pale."

He lunged.

The couple bolted toward the exit, but the velvet curtains had been replaced by iron bars. Behind them, the sound of heavy, rhythmic thuds echoed. Jackor was sprinting on all fours, the giant crayon gripped in his teeth like a bone.

"I need a new shade!" Jackor howled, vaulting over a row of bleachers. He whipped out a second crayon—"Sunset Sienna"—which dripped with the unmistakable orange tint of preserved fat and skin. "I call this one 'The Screaming Bride'!"

Elias pushed Sarah behind a cage of sleeping lions, but Jackor was already above them, perched on the trapeze wire. He looked down, his yellow eyes scanning Sarah’s trembling hands.

"Your ivory," Jackor purred, raising a sharpened tool. "It would make the perfect highlight for my masterpiece."

He dropped from the wire, the heavy "crayons" clattering against the floor like cordwood. As he closed the distance, he began to peel the wrapper off a fresh, blank mold, his laughter drowning out the distant carnival music. He didn't want their lives; he wanted their hues, and he was ready to grind them down to get the perfect stroke.