Posts Tagged ‘clown’

hornIt was doomed from the start, man. There had been six of us, and we were the masters of the universe, bulletproof and straight up gangster. You know the names already. What matters, what you have to understand, is that when we started that thing, we meant to do good. To be good, and to inspire others to do good, too.

We wanted what everyone else wants: respect, friends, love. We wanted to take the love to the people, to show them that there was nothing to fear, no reason to hide, that we weren’t the monsters so many of them thought we were. And for a while, it worked.

I was the face of the movement. I never bought into the whole ‘Sad Clown’ mindset; I felt that this life of mine should reflect the joy, the gleeful chaos that ensued whenever I walked into the tent. That’s what I was all about. Fucking joy, even if I wasn’t always feeling it. So there’s my mug, all happy smiles and arched eyebrows, bald cap over a bright green monk’s cowl. You know me. You’ve seen the posters and I know you watch the news.

So we would assemble, faces already in place, and we’d go in to the hospitals. Find the terminal kids and give them some laughs. That’s what most of us did, anyway. Captain Fancypants and Sparkles would slip away and find the place where they kept the good drugs, the serious narcotics, locked up. It’s not like it is now; in those days, it was just a closet, sometimes marked, sometimes not. Moe had huge pockets inside those baggy pants of his, and that son of a bitch could empty a pharmacy in seconds flat. By the time the pharmacist realized they’d been hit, we were already down the road and besides, who’d suspect a clown?

Then, and this is the important part, we’d take the drugs to the people who needed it. Not the junkies or the dealers, but the good people who were in serious pain and couldn’t afford a hospital visit or a costly prescription. Yes, we stole, but we did good with it. So much good. The problem is that the more we saw of the people in need, the angrier we got with those who held the purse strings, who kept the stuff out of the hands of the needy and in the hands of the entitled. We were like Robin Hood, but with rubber chickens instead of bow and arrow.

We eventually came to realize that the hospitals were small potatoes, that if we really wanted to make a difference, we’d have to hit the manufacturing facilities where the meds were made. So that’s what we did. I won’t bore you with the details of the plan, but it was brilliant. I thought it was, at least.

We hit the plant at midnight, figuring no one would be there. We were clowns, for Christ’s sake; what did we know about security at major pharmaceutical companies? Basic tools, nothing else, aside from the duffel bags. I had no idea that Twitch brought explosives, or why. What the fuck, why bring bangers on a night raid? I thought he’d left that behind in favor of Clown Life. Twitch always had that nervous energy about him, even when he was in makeup. Edgy, like an electrical current was running through him. So we break in through a side door, find our way to manufacturing and holy shit, there are mountains of boxes of pills, everything you could imagine, and a ton more that you couldn’t. I head straight for the antibiotics, knowing that there were folks up in the hills who needed them badly, so badly.

Working quickly, we filled our pockets and bags while Bananahead kept a lookout. The thing was, we didn’t know there was a night watchman. It wasn’t his fault. I didn’t think it was our fault either, but I know better now. These guys come through the door with flashlights in hand, maybe with guns drawn or maybe not, and the whole damn thing went sideways. Bananahead loses his shit and starts yelling about power to the people and fuck the system, like we’re the goddamn Weathermen or something, despite us all being in our goddamn clown suits. The guards didn’t know what the hell to do. They were laughing, but at the same time they knew something was wrong because it’s the middle of the damn night in a drug company warehouse and there’s five goddamn clowns screaming at him, screaming at each other, and then one of the clowns pulls a giant lighter out of his pants and sparks the fuse on a stick of dynamite and next thing you know, there’s blood all over the place and the night is wrecked, just fucking wrecked. It’s gone to shit, like Reservoir Dogs in greasepaint.

We’re standing there in a daze, and the poor security guards are dead, so obviously and violently dead, and scattered all over the place, Bananahead is covered in blood and gore, and Captain Fancypants is sitting on the floor, head in hands, weeping and sobbing like a baby and next thing I know, the night is filled with the screaming of sirens. The door is kicked in and suddenly Twitch is just gone, his head explodes in a spray of pink and red, and Sparkles is thrown backward by the force of a shotgun blast and then it’s just me, all the rest are dead, and all the guns are pointed at me, and they’re all shouting and all I can do is stand there, shit-the-pants terrified, but this goddamn smile painted on my face makes them think I’m getting off on this and I’m shouting and they’re shouting, and when I try to take a step my shoe squeaks and I slip in a puddle of someone’s blood and land on my ass, which sets off the whoopee cushion and I realize then that it’s all over, that my life’s work is ended, my passion dead, because of this.This hopeless, stupid mess.

I wanted to help people. I wanted to spread laughter and hope. I’m lost. My friends are dead, and I’m going to prison for a long time, the big vacation, and for a moment, everything stops and I’m reminded what my old friend and mentor, Dingles, told me, so many years ago.

“Kid, no matter what you do,” he said, dead serious with the stink of grain alcohol on his breath. “Don’t ever do no shit that’ll end you up behind bars. Bad things happen to a clown in jail. Permanent things, awful things. Trust me, I know.” He had shivered at the recollection, and a silent tear had slid down his painted face. He didn’t think people could see when he cried, and most couldn’t. But I could, every goddamn time. No one hurts quite like a clown.

I can’t go to prison, I know I won’t survive, that no mercy is shown for Red Nosers like me. I have no choice, this is my destiny, right here, right now. I say when is when and enough is enough. Looking back, I never had a chance; this life, clown life, chose me from the very start. This is who I am, what I am. I pull my knife and slash my own throat, real fast. The spray erupts from me like seltzer from a bottle. As the life drains out of me, I hear the cops laughing.

Life is good.

You gotta start at the shoes. This here, right at the beginning, is where most people screw up. They think, “Oh, the head, the wig, that’s gotta be the first step,” but I’m here to tell you, they’re wrong and I guaran-goddamn-tee they ain’t here to argue the point. Everybody’s got their own ways of luring these creatures into the work chamber; myself, I tell ‘em there’s cancer babies that need balloon animals. Clowns eat that shit up and hey, don’t judge – the end more than justifies the means with this much at stake. You’ll see; we’re playing for keeps here.

Once you’ve got the thing strapped to your work surface, bring out the bone saw. Don’t take it out beforehand, unless you want to panic-fight Bozo, and ain’t a sane man on Earth wants to do that. That said, you want to keep it awake as long as possible, so never underestimate the importance of tourniquets. Keep buckets handy.

After tying off your tourniquets just above the ankle, go ahead and use the saw, below the tourniquet, to separate the feet and shoes from the body. Never attempt to remove just the shoes – there is far too much evil stored inside those oversized clodhoppers. Just dump the shoes and feet in the acid barrel and all’s well and good. The acid won’t destroy the evil, but it’ll keep things in check while you deal with the Satan spawn on the table.

This is the point where the costume needs to be removed. Just cut the damn thing off, sure as shit it ain’t being reused. Taking care to not let those fluffy pompon buttons touch your skin – that shit’ll burn you down to the bone. If it hasn’t started screaming yet, you’re doing great. Now, tie a tourniquet good and tight just above each elbow. If you want to use the saw, that’s your choice but me, I find the cleaver easier. More satisfying. Don’t fart around with the arms; just get ’em off and into the barrel, nice and quick. The subject may be going into shock, so be sure to keep smelling salts handy.

If it’s still conscious (and it damn well better be), the subject may be pleading, honking, for its life. This is a common ploy: do not fall for it! Deception is their stock in trade and don’t ever think that just because you’ve got its hands and feet that you’re free and clear. The worst is yet to come – all you’ve done so far is slightly minimize the risk.

At each step, be sure check the restraints. Safety is key here, so don’t let your guard down. It’s about to get all kinds of serious.

By now, you should have a reasonably docile and alert subject, a bit messy, but with minimal honking. Double-check the tourniquets and try not to get seltzer water on your shoes. This is the calm before the storm. Approach the thing from either side, making sure it sees you. Eye contact is critical at this stage; use tape or staples to ensure its eyes are open. Myself, I picked up an antique Ludovico device at old Doc Brodsky’s garage sale in Nacogdoches, and I use that. To each their own.

Using a finely honed scalpel, remove the hair by cutting along the scalp line. The subject may attempt to distract you by claiming it to be a wig, but don’t fall for it. This is simply a stalling tactic meant to put you off-task. Take care to keep blood and seltzer from getting in its eyes, and put on the chainmail gloves. Efficient and confident strokes are needed here; you don’t want to spend too much time this close to a clown. Last thing you want is one of these things in your head and that’s just where he’ll go, if given half a chance.

Now comes the moment of truth, that which you have spent all these bloody hours working toward. Grasp the nose firmly with one hand – do not be shocked if it honks – and with the other hand, cut away the nose as quickly as possible, keeping eye contact as much as safety will allow, while repeating the words, “Where are the clowns, there should be clowns, well maybe next year,” over and over.

Though a cunning and savage beast, the clown will never suspect that its nose, that bulbous red beacon of unrestrained evil, is the ultimate goal. It is within this seemingly innocent symbol of clownhood that the souls of its victims are kept, and this is why we do what we do. Remember that movie where Mork played a doctor with a clown nose? Think about that, let it soak in real good. Once you have grasped its nose, expect the subject to go thoroughly ballistic, screaming and honking and flailing about under the restraints.

Once you have successfully removed the nose, place it upon the table and strike it repeatedly with the Sanctified Squeaky Hammer of Ultimate Truth. This will release the souls contained within, resulting in a torrent of anguished cries of the tormented ones are finally given the freedom that all souls deserve, as they ascend to their heavenly reward. You know that scene in that Indiana Jones movie where the Nazis open the God box and all them spirits came out and made the bad guys’ faces melt? It looks exactly like that. I heard somewhere that Spielberg got to watch a disassembly once, and wrote that scene as a result. Makes as much sense as anything.

Now, you should have a half-dead pile of meat without menace. Carefully untie the tourniquets and let the monster bleed out. I’ve seen cases where even after all this, the clown still had some fight left in it, so stay vigilant and keep the restraints in place. Leave it as a message to some and a warning to all: No evil goes unpunished.