I'm such a fuck up, Jason thought as he glared at the mewling man with the red rubber nose. He'd stopped his fist from flattening the fake clown by inches. Superheroes shouldn't be crippled by phobias. Bruce had conquered his chiroptophobia, turning it into a potent weapon, a symbol that others dreaded, but Jason still got lost in the green haze of fear whenever he saw grease paint – even smelled it – or heard the clangor of fuckin' calliope music. He released the birthday entertainer, satisfied he wasn't one of the bad guys, and left the party.