A cackling, skeletal jester in a tattered, patchwork harlequin outfit, his bony fingers clutching a massive, warped mandolin that strums itself, producing eerie, discordant melodies that summon crawling things from the shadows. His mask is cracked porcelain, frozen in a deranged grin, but his empty eye sockets glow with an unnatural purple fire. The carnival behind him is a nightmare of warped, towering tents stitched from human hides, broken carousel horses with razor- toothed mouths, and Ferris wheels spinning endlessly, carrying shrieking, ghostly passengers that never disembark. The whole scene is bathed in a sickly, yellow- green glow, giving it an otherworldly, punk- drenched menace
0
18
Safe
Private
