John C. Willis sits upon the floor of an old disused circus tent, surrounded by memories of tightropes, applause, and the intoxicating rush of adrenaline.
We see the man before the mask for the first time – if only for a split second.
And then, just like that, the satisfied smile pales to nothingness. Willis has gone, and Haywire has returned.
Haywire: Baa, baa, black sheep, have you any wool?
The Padded Menace breaks into an unnerving song.
Haywire: Yes, sir, yes, sir, three bags full.
He stares into the distance; eyes glazed and rocking back and forth.
Haywire: One for the master, and one for the dame.
Haywire picks up his rusty wrench and points it in our direction.
Haywire: And one for the little boy who lives down the lane.
There is an eerie silence as he stares back into space.
Haywire: You may call me mad, and that might well be true, but my memory, dearies, is still as sharp as a tack.
Haywire switches position to his hands and knees, mimicking that of an animal.
Haywire: On Deathrow, we were all caged lambs awaiting our turn at the slaughterhouse. Our fate? HeHeHe… Why, our fate was determined by the whims of the shepherd, of course.
Haywire: The warden who held our lives in his hands.
The Fractured Funambulist scoffs at the mere thought of Max Meadows, sitting back cross-legged – as withdrawn as ever before.
Haywire: Maxxie was a cold, calculating man, indeed, with eyes like shards that pierced right through you. He prowled the halls of the prison like a predator, his presence suffocating. His authority unquestioned. He saw us not as men, but as commodities.
Haywire: Expendable toys in his twisted little game of power and control.
This brings a smirk to the former acrobat’s face.
Haywire: To him, we were nothing but lambs to be led to the slaughter. Our blood, staining his hands, as he climbed the ladder of success.
Haywire raises his crowbar and motions it back and forth.
Haywire: Tut tut tut tut… But I refused to be just another lamb led to the slaughter. I rejected to bow down to the whims of the shepherd and accept my fate without a fight.
Haywire: And now, as I roam the streets, a free man in a world of lambs, I feel a sense of exhilaration. No longer am I shackled by the chains of fate. No longer am I at the mercy of the shepherd and his flock.
Haywire: Now, I am the shepherd – the master of my own destiny – and the lambs of this world will once again tremble at my feet.
Haywire: At Pandemonium, nineteen little lambs may try to flee – to hide from the inevitable – but they cannot escape the inevitable.
Haywire: I will strike, and they will fall – their blood staining Arcadia again as it did before.
The Madman pulls an anxious look, imitating his opponents.
Haywire: So let them cower in fear. Let them huddle together like sheep awaiting the slaughter, for in the end, they will all feel the cold embrace of death delivered by the hand of their shepherd…
Haywire laughs manically.
Haywire: Me.