Chapter 1: A Message From Minstrel

The television screen stopped. Before, it showed Kanye West and an award-winning dancer locked in embrace as they performed their routine. Now, the two figures were frozen in place, their faces horrifical contorted while the sounds of a thousand mosquitoes rang out. The screen soon went black, then the inky color changed.

The room on the screen was made to look exactly like ABC Gotham, WWGC. In the background was the familiar, blue-tinted Gotham skyline, a sight that all her citizens had come to love. The WWGC insignia--a pigeon carrying a pen in much the same fashion that doves carry olive branches--was perfectly framed within the center of the camera, affixed to the front face of the news desk as it always was. Even the papers and mug resting upon the glass table-top were an uncanny match to those of the real WWGC studio. Were it not for the unusual anchor--very clearly not Vicky Vale and Walter Waterson--the citizens of Gotham may have been fooled into believing they were watching an actual broadcast.

Seated at the desk was a single man. He wore a straw hat, suspenders, and a red and white, striped button-down. Lofted in his arms was a banjo that gleamed in the studio lights. The figure struck the banjo in a slow, steady stream of plings and plucks, while his large eyes stared up at some unknown spectacle. His face, painted pitch-black like the Gotham night, was stretched in awe while his large, red lips hung dumbly agape.

Suddenly, the spectacle turned to the camera and smiled.

"Oh, hello there. And good evening," the figure elucidated in a refined, high speech. Placing the banjo aside, he took off his hat and did a large, seated bow with a slight flourish of his white, gloved hands.

"It brings me the utmost pleasure to make your acquaintance," the figure continued. He then reclaimed his banjo and began playing a tune. Millions of Gothamites would later say they recognized it but would find themselves unable to place the exact origins. The familiar sound of Camptown Races was so slowed and saddened with his playing that no one would identify it until hours later, through the internet.

"You already know my name. I daresay that you know everything about me. Our relationship has been so intimate from a young age. My own mother allowed us both to suckle from her ample bosom. Of course, your helping was always much more sizeable than my own. I don't blame you for that, of course. How could I? Aren't I your dear friend, just as you've always said?"

The mysterious figure covered his mouth as his entire body began to twitch. A low, guttural voice chopped through the air. As the shaking grew faster and the voice grew louder, it took a more familiar form. The man wasn't growling or coughing or anything else. He was laughing. It was a cacophonous chortle more comparable to the sound of gravel and slide whistles in a blender than any sound a human could make, but laughter all the same.

"I entertained you," He screamed as he suddenly pointed at the camera. His eyes were as wide as his bloody-red mouth, both shining bright and wet in the harsh lights of the studio.

"I told you the most wonderful stories and played you the most amazing songs. I told you how I escaped tigers and briar patches! I played games with you! Remember how we tossed the rocks and baseballs? Remember the afternoons we went gator-watching? We sang the most incredible songs! And you gave me the most delicious food. Food which I am to this day obsessed with. We were FRIENDS!"

In a swift instant, the figure stopped laughing. The sudden change in his demeanor shocked viewers more than anything else in his broadcast. Still staring wide into the camera, the childish glee disappeared from his eyes faster than anyone could register. The odd smile vanished from his face just as quickly, and his red, banana-like lips became two grand, red cushions. The shift from mania and twisted joy to stoic ambivalence happened so completely that one might argue that their bizarre news anchor had become another person entirely.

"So why would you betray me?"

The figure raised a hand to his eye, as though wiping away a tear. Yet his face stayed perfectly still and unchanged the entire time. The camera began to zoom in on the stranger's face. Soon, his dark complexion filled the entire screen and he became a floating pair of eyes and red lips.

"I'm upset, to say the absolute least. You've all been very bad girls, boys, and gender variant children. Were we ever truly friends? Were you afraid of me? Could you have been my friend despite being afraid of me? Do you know how long I was kept suppressed so that our friendship could continue? Do you know how much I grew in all that time?"

The picture cut away from the madman to show a series of disturbing images. A black and white photograph of a corpse; its face bulged so horribly and grotesquely that it hardly appeared human. A modern picture of a woman lying on the floor of a jail cell. A young girl in a prison suit, crying in a courtroom. A burning building. People in a small village eating cakes of mud. A horde of people waiting to buy cases of water. Men in black leather jackets connecting a thousand strings to the walls of a house. Presented without warning, the images displayed prompted their fair share of tears that night, from children and adults alike.

The face and its strange bearer soon returned. He was smiling again, but differently than before. It was the type of wide-eyed grin that would make a man look over his shoulder. Eyes wide and aware, pointed directly at the camera yet unfocused in a bizarre way. Up-turned lips reflected a beautiful, redrum hue into the air as the overhead light struck them. Clearly a practiced face--the type that even someone as curious as he would have had to practice in a mirror for hours to perfect. But the effect was worth it if it meant all who saw this expression would forever associate him with it.

"I'm free now. A physical form born from their souls. In this flesh lies the fears of both you, my frenemies, and them, my family. But for my family, I'm more than fear. I am rage. I am hope. I am sex, money, murder, honor, DNA!"

He suddenly stopped. His eyebrow raised and his mouth twisted, he seemed deep in thought about something.

"I'm so sorry, that's Kendrick's thing. I got lost in the moment. Anyway, Call me Minstrel."