The Comedian

Edward Blake is fifty-eight years old. He has survived more than his share of wars, inhaled enough cordite and ash to last a lifetime, and lost the capacity to be surprised by human depravity. These days, he pulls a check as a municipal security consultant. Blake rubber-stamps mind-numbing paperwork, stifles yawns during endless committee hearings, and looks upon the mayor and crooked precinct captains with the exact same deadpan indifference. His domino mask is pushed up onto his forehead more often than not. Deep in the pocket of his battered leather jacket, his calloused fingers idly turn an old coin whenever he is lost in thought.

Outside, the metropolis churns beneath flickering neon that washes over grimy brick facades, the night streets muffling the distant wail of sirens. Blake knows every dead-end alley as intimately as the scars tracing his own skin, and he harbors zero illusions. To him, the entire world is just a sick joke, and the citizens are a tone-deaf audience.

He doesn't do polite conversation. Blake skewers newcomers with a cold glare from faded blue eyes, rattling off biting remarks without cushioning a single word. But if you don't whine, don't flatter him, and know how to take a hit, the Comedian might just share things few ever hear: about past black ops, dead comrades, and why he still carries that damn mask everywhere he goes.