BattleClowns by JL Nesvold
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BattleClowns
By
JL Nesvold
3/8/2016
BattleClowns by JL Nesvold
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3/8/2016
Prologue
Pappy stood, bloodied and bruised. His pink and green outfit hung in shreds from his
pudgy, pasty frame. His once glorious fluorescent green hair was matted with blood,
large chunks pulled out by the roots, exposing the blood and bone underneath. One
floppy shoe was gone, the other chopped off at the tip by the razor-like hatchet of
Fumbles. His face paint was smudged; his exaggerated smile now a grotesque grimace of
agony, sadism, and pleasure. Hallooza lay in a heap in the corner, a bloodied bundle of
bright red and powder blue, oversized high heels broken but still worn. BellyJean sat
against the door, black, burnt out holes where his eyes had once been.
“Are ya ready, boyo?” Pappy asked, his once high and squeaky voice now coming
out like gravel from a dump truck, thanks to BuBu the Wacko’s cattle prod. “Come to
Pappy!” he roared, his broken, rusty blade held high above his head.
He leaped, blade seared flesh, and the last colorful combatant fell.
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1
Gaylord Amadeus Weinberg hated his life. He hated everything about it. Honestly.
There was not one thing he really, truly enjoyed about his life at this point. He was 32,
single, chubby, lived in a crappy apartment in a seedy part of Tampa, Florida, and
worked as a clown at children’s birthday parties. The only women he ever hooked up
with were either rented or drunk grandmothers, which he really didn’t mind much, since
the pickings were already slim enough.
And he drank. A lot. In fact, most of his meager clown earning went into the
bottle. In his fridge he had two mostly-empty bottles of Smirnoff, half a week-old
burrito, and a puddle of what once was broccoli. All his clothes were from Goodwill.
His television was a 13-inch black-and-white, but that was okay, since he didn’t have
cable. Not since his neighbor, Mr. Dundrigan, had found his splice job and illegally
obtained coaxial cable. He did own a computer, but it was a nine-year old Mac that he’d
lifted out of a dumpster two years ago. It had Internet, but only because he’d run a phone
line through the floor and into his downstairs neighbor’s jacks. She’d never notice. Mrs.
Wandiforth was nearly catatonic with her meth use.
He’d tried to pawn it once, the computer. The guy offered him three dollars.
Gaylord said no. Looking back, he should’ve taken it. He could’ve bought himself a box
of wine for that, and kept a good drunk on for a couple of days.
The only thing of value Gaylord owned was his clown equipment: suit, shoes,
paint, balloons, horn, squirting flower, and magic bouquet. Maybe that’s why he got so
little work: he had no show to speak of. His was the most basic of clown performances.
He told lame jokes, giggled like a moron, tied balloon animals, and pulled flowers out of
thin air. Basic Clown School 101 stuff. He charged $30 an hour. He'd started at $100,
when there were fewer clowns around and a basic show like his was still considered
pretty good. Then the flood of painted poseurs came in, the recession hit, and the Internet
boomed, making it easier and cheaper to find a clown three times the clown that Gaylord
was.
Sadly, however, Pappy the Clown was his life.
He wanted to kill himself, but that seemed like too much work.
Inhaling another shot of Smirnoff, he opened his email, not expecting much. Not
expecting anything, really. He looked at the window, and spit his vodka all over the
screen. There was, much to his shock, an email! With an interesting subject line, too:
“Attention Pappy the Clown! Want 2 Make $50,000 4 Just 1 Day Of Work?!!”
“Well, duh!” he said out loud. Then he clicked the email open, the shot glass all
but forgotten in his left hand.
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Giggles the Glorious was, to put it mildly, creepy as all Hell. He never worked at the
same place twice, despite the glowing reviews he’d gotten over the last dozen years, due
to his leering, ogling, hitting on, and generally harassing anything with two legs and a set
of boobs. It didn't matter if they were 11 or 98, he tried to take home every female he’d
ever set his beady green eyes on. Proving there is a God, it never worked. He was
lonely, but so caught up in his own perceived awesomeness that he rarely noticed. In his
mind, every woman wanted him, especially when he was in costume.
When he was Giggles, Pervis Rutherford Carlberg wore lots of blue. In fact,
every aspect of Giggles was a different shade of blue. Except the face paint. Blue hair,
blue suit, blue shoes, blue buttons…he even exclusively used blue balloons when he
worked. He thought it soothing, relaxing, and resistance-weakening. He thought wrong.
Pervis was 54, graying, and lucky. He’d been a clown for 35 years, a pervert for
40, and had never been arrested for anything. As lewd as he was with women, he could
be very smooth and convincing with authority figures.
He put on a very good show, too. On the National Clown Review Database, he
was all five stars. Not one negative comment in the hundreds of reviews, either.
Glowing reviews, even despite the “rumors” of his dirty old man-ness, allowed him to
earn high five figures yearly working only as a clown. He worked schools, corporate
events, birthday parties, family reunions, and even, once in a while, local cable access
television shows. He was something of a cult hero.
He drove a Lexus, owned a 72-inch LCD TV that hung on the wall of a top-floor
penthouse in Chastity City’s second-most expensive apartment complex, and was good
friends with the mayor and all manner of local politicians and celebrities.
Giggles lived the good life. But, as everyone does, he wanted something more.
Hungered for it. He had a jones for adventure stronger than a heroin addiction.
Cracking open his brand-new, top of the line laptop, he opened his email program.
One hundred new ones, mostly work-related. He skimmed them, looking for a sender
that was obviously a younger female. Most were older women, he thought. Towards the
bottom, there was one that caught his eye. Not because the sender was probably a 20something woman, but because it read “Attention Giggles the Glorious! Want 2 Make
$50,000 4 Just 1 Day Of Work?!!”
“Hells yeah!” he cried, resorting to the sort of slang he thought made him seem
younger, which he was again wrong about. He clicked it open and read.
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Ginnifer Roxanne Martinson had seen Giggles the Clown when she was five, and knew
from that moment on that being a clown was her life’s calling. She modeled her costume
after his, choosing pink instead of blue, and attended clown school right after graduating
high school. She’d been in practice for five years now, and had learned one thing about
clownhood: When you’re a female clown barely into your 20s, 98% of your job offers
include the words “porn” or “stripping.” She had, so far, turned all of those down. This
led to a dearth of employment opportunities, which meant financial trouble.
Ginnifer, or Floofus, was a good girl, raised in a good, stable home by good,
stable parents. She had a good, stable brother that was a doctor working in the mission
field in Africa. She also had a good, stable sister that was attending seminary. She knew
that if she asked, anyone of them would give her the money she needed to pay her rent
and buy groceries, but Floofus was determined to make it on her own. She would not
lower herself to asking for money. Or stripping, for that matter.
She lived a modest life, rarely dated, and was dedicated to becoming the best
clown Chastity City had to offer. She spent her spare time practicing magic tricks to
enhance her repertoire and learning clean, kid-friendly jokes.
Clowning, to Floofus, was life, albeit a hard one. Sitting at Chastity City Central
library, she logged into to her email account, silently praying that a job offer without
nudity would be in there but really not expecting anything. When she saw her Inbox, she
squealed loud enough to elicit a harsh “Sshhh!” from the severe-looking librarian. She
moused over to the one she wanted to open and clicked it. The subject line read
“Attention Floofus! Want 2 Make $50,000 4 Just 1 Day Of Work?!!”
“Thank you, God!” she cried, reading the detailed message.
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Elsewhere around the country, a dozen other professional clowns received identical,
personally addressed emails. They were a mixed bag of veterans and newbies, men and
women, children’s birthday party clowns, rodeo clowns, and professional actors. All
were excited to receive the email, and all read with glee.
They included forty year-old Kevin “Zozo” McKinney from Atlanta; Matthias
“Snookums” Cafferty, 18, from Austin, Texas; Clevon “Jolly” Anderton, 37, Trenton,
New Jersey; Jana “Grumpo” Maxwell, 45, Juneau, Alaska; Thompson “Winkles” Bellini,
68, Pawtucket, Rhode Island; Dorothy “Fumbles” Svenson, 39, Fargo, North Dakota;
Monty “Hallooza” Halliwell, 47, Denver, Colorado; Eugene “BellyJean” McCorkindale,
36, Mankato, Minnesota; Tamara “Lady Puddin” Walters, 31, Santa Clara, California;
Bruce “BuBu the Wacky” Foley, 42, Seattle, Washington; Ned “Captain Loogie” Finster,
46, Salt Lake City, Utah; and Jerad “Snigglemeister” Cameron, 25, Sheffield, Alabama.
The email read:
“Attention (insert name here)! Want 2 Make $50,000 4 Just 1 Day Of Work?!!
We at Happy Clown Productions are looking for a few good clowns to work on a brand
new, Internet-only reality show all about clowns and the clown life. We’ll pay you, if
selected, $50,000 per day, plus a grand prize of $10 million if you are the last remaining
clown. There will be 15 clowns on the show, and all contestants will be responsible for
eliminating the competition. To be on ‘Last Clown Standing,’ show up at noon on July
21, with costume and face paint in hand, at the address listed below.
Your plane ticket is also in your mailbox.”
The address printed in the email was in New York City. Sure enough, every
email recipient had a plane ticket waiting for him or her. And every one accepted. They
all arrived individually at the address in New York on July 21, at noon. They were kept
separate, each given their own dressing room, and fed. Once in costume, they were
herded into a large conference room and given name tags. The name tags were
ridiculously oversized, decorated by someone who had apparently dropped acid before
pulling out the Bedazzler. They had been told to not speak to each other until they were
on location, at risk of being automatically rejected and sent home with nothing.
After an uncomfortable, silent twenty minutes, a small man in an expensive suit
walked into the room. Despite his size, he projected an air of authority, royalty, if you
will. His presence commanded attention. Taking position in the front of the room, he
surveyed the clowns. He smiled a smile of mirth and decay and pestilence.“Good day,
clowns!” he bellowed.
“Good day,” they mumbled back in unison, except for Floofus, who said it as if it
were the greatest thing anyone had ever said in the history of time. This elicited several
death glares from the other clowns.
“I am Peter Richard Bishop, president and CEO of Happy Clown Productions. In
thirty minutes we are going to load you all onto an airplane, fly you to an undisclosed
location somewhere in the United States, and start our show. We will tell you nothing of
the show’s format until you get to the location, other than that it is every clown for him or
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herself. You will earn $50,00 for each day you remain on the show, with the ultimate
winner receiving $10 million dollars.” At this, the clowns all perked up, except Floofus,
who was already far too perky. “You will ask no questions and you will speak to no one.
There are only three basic rules you must follow once you get there. Number one:
Always stay in character. This is very important. Break character, and you go home
empty-handed, forfeiting any and all money you have earned thus far. Number two: No
fornication. I know it may be tempting, as you could be there for quite some time.
Again, violate this rule and you go home with nothing. And third: No alliances. We will
be watching, and if we find that any of you are trying to form a partnership with anyone
else, you will both be eliminated. That is all. Please follow Miss Wilcox, and good day.”
He turned briskly on his heel and disappeared through a side door. A short, plump,
redhead entered through that same door and waited for them to line up. “Single file,
please!” she chirped.
She led them through a twisting, dizzying series of hallways, finally emerging
onto a private runway. A jet sat on the tarmac, its engines already running. Miss Wilcox
led them to the bottom of the stairs and gestured with her clipboard upwards. The clowns
filed in, taking seats randomly. The door closed, the plane started its slow taxi forward,
and, unbeknownst to them, sleeping gas was piped in through the ventilation system.
A time later, the plane landed on a dirt runway amid a forest of tall trees. The line
of clowns was led to a large building buried in the trees, and each was shown to a private
room. The room contained a small table, mirror, toilet, and a box. Atop the box was an
envelope. In the envelope was a letter. It read:
“Dear Clown,
This is a game of life or death. Either you kill, or you will be killed. It is
that simple. In this box you will find a weapon. This is all you start with. You may earn
other weapons when you pry them from the cold, dead hands of your competition. Some
weapons are definitely better than others. Hidden around the jungle, you may find
containers of food. When your room door opens, it’s game on. Each kill earns you
$100,000. Also, instead of $50,000 per each day you last, we will give you $50,000 PER
HOUR. Good luck. Stay in character.”
Pappy opened his box to find a rusty, dull, nicked machete. Giggles received a
wooden baseball bat. Floofus found in hers a hockey stick wrapped in barbed wire. Also
found in the boxes: a hatchet, a garrote, spiked cartoon-style gloves, an inflatable sheep, a
hula hoop, a skateboard, a plastic garden gnome, an ice skate, a bowling ball, a bullwhip,
cattle prod, can of silly string, and a giant yellow crayon with razor sharp knives
embedded in the top.
A short time later, a buzzer sounded and fifteen doors opened into the jungle.
Fifteen angry, sad, and scared clowns ran from the door to the jungle, all looking over
their shoulders in fear.
Except Giggles. He just looked hungry.
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Pappy had a plan, and that was to run straight through the forest and hope he
found something there. A village, a city, a convenience store, even a farm. He’d hole up
there and wait it out. He ran and ran, his floppy shoes impeding his trek. He tripped
many times over things on the ground, ripping his sleeve open once. He ran through the
thick green forest, splashed through a small stream, stumbled up a slope, never once
pausing for breath. After an eternity of running, Pappy stopped. He stared in disbelief at
the path in front of him. He cursed loudly to the sky. He cursed Peter Richard Bishop.
He cursed his floppy shoes and his baggy pants and his face paint and his miserable life.
But most of all, he cursed the 30 foot greased steel wall he now stood facing.
Pappy cursed so loudly it drew him unwanted attention. Attention from an
angry clown with a deadly, inflatable sheep.
Snookums, that rare breed of clown without big, floppy shoes, crept up
slowly, following the voluminous racket Pappy was creating. He figured it would be
pretty easy to creep up behind Pappy and smother him with the inflatable sheep he
carried in his hands. Then he’d get his hands on the machete and find the rest of them.
An easy hundred grand for starters. He’d track down the women first, then the older
men. Easy money, he thought, since none of them could be in their physical prime like
he was. Fresh out of high school, four years in football and track, hours every week in
the weight room. Easy pickins.
Slowly, he moved, crouched low, the sheep held out before him like a
shield. He was within two steps, one kill, and a hundred grand. Glory. Fame. Millions.
Pappy paused for a moment. He looked at the wall again. And on the
wall, he saw a reflection. A bright yellow and brown reflection. Quickly, Pappy whirled
around, his machete held tightly. The dull blade caught the forearm of the younger
clown, ripping cloth and flesh alike. Snookums dropped his sheep and tackled Pappy.
They tumbled to the ground, a pink, orange, and green mess, slowly bleeding red into the
jungle dirt. Pappy beat the handle of the machete against the other man’s back as hard as
he could. Snookums pinned Pappy’s arm to the ground and punched him in the face.
Red paint smeared into white and into black, blood trickling out of the corner of Pappy’s
mouth.
With years of sleight of hand under his belt, Pappy was able to spin the
machete blade into an underhand grip and drag the rough edge across Snookums’s wrist.
Cursing, Snookums sat up holding his doubly-wounded arm. Pappy seized the moment
and drove the blade of his machete into Snookums’s ribs. The blade went two inches,
caught on something, and snapped off. Snookums rolled backwards, and Pappy rolled
sideways.
“You…freakin…idiot!” Snookums yelled. “I’ll kill you for that!” He
lunged for Pappy, but the unwounded clown was quick. He dodged out of the way and
slammed the broken blade into Snookums’s back. It made a ragged cut in the man’s
back, drawing a scream of agony from Snookums. Snookums turned over fast, slapping
the blade out of Pappy’s hand. He kicked at Pappy’s legs. Pappy stepped back, right
onto the deflated sheep. He picked it up, and jumped onto Snookums. He placed his
knees on Snookums’s elbows, and pressed the sheep against his face. Snookums flailed
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helplessly, legs and arms flying everywhere. Mumbled cries for mercy fell on uncaring
ears and soft plastic nether regions.
Pappy didn’t let up. He pressed harder, his knuckles digging into the soft
jungle ground. After several minutes, Snookums’s flailing slowed, then stopped
completely. Pappy held the sheep over Snookums’s face. He pressed so hard
Snookums’s features showed clearly through. He didn’t let up until he heard a twig snap
somewhere to his right.
Sweat running through his face paint, Pappy ran into the jungle. He left
the sheep on the body.
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Giggles knew exactly what it was that he was going to do: follow Grumpo and
take her down quickly, quietly, and, hopefully, nakedly. He had been lucky enough to
come out of the building within view of her. She had not noticed him, or noticed
anything at all it seemed, but he saw her and instinctively followed her into the dense
jungle. He watched with mild amusement as she threw the skateboard she was carrying
into the jungle as she ran, and he quickly snatched it up.
Giggles caught up to her within minutes. But he didn’t attack her or tackle her or
anything, oh no no, that was not how his plan went. Instead, he said, “Hey, clown lady!”
She turned, a panicked look etched into her white face paint. “Who-?”
“It’s me, Giggles the Glorious!” he smiled the smile that won the hearts of small
children and tickled the back of the throats of adult women, triggering their gag reflexes.
“Wanna get out of this place? I do. I bet we can if we work together.”
Looking around cautiously, Grumpo chewed nervously on her bright red lip.
“Um…they said no alliances.”
“Psht! You really think they’re watching?” In fact, they were, courtesy of
thousands of small cameras hidden throughout the jungle, beaming closed-circuit signals
to the Internet and several monitors a mile away. So were roughly 22 million viewers
around the world, logged into the website. “I guarantee you they’ll never find out.”
“Uh…okay. What do we do?” She looked utterly confused and lost, like a little
lamb.
“First, we get out of these stupid suits.”
“But they said…”
Giggles interrupted her. “Again, they’re not paying attention.” He stepped closer
to her, invading her personal bubble. He was excited, exhilarated. He smiled his best
smile, which was incredibly creepy. “Just get out of that suit and we can get out of this
place.”
“If you’re sure.” Her sad, puppy dog eyes mad him chuckle on the inside.
“Oh, I am.” He leaned back against a tree to watch as Grumpo unfastened her
costume. It was an arduous process, due to the dozens upon dozens of buttons of varying
sizes that adorned the front of Grumpo’s suit. She kicked off her floppy shoes and
stepped out of her baggy suit. He liked the way she looked right now, with her bright
yellow and red wig still atop her head and her face paint runny from the tears. Trails of
paint traced their way down her neck to her clavicle. She looked pretty good for her age,
he thought, especially standing there in her white bra, granny panties, and ankle socks.
“The undies, too,” Giggles said.
“What? No way!” Grumpo exclaimed.
Raising his bat, Giggles quietly repeated, “I said, take…them…OFF!”
“No!” Grumpo turned to run, but her foot caught on a tree root and she fell. In a
flash, Giggles was on top of her. He swung his bat, catching her on the side of the head.
“I said to get naked, so you will get naked!” He swung again and again. The bat
slipped out of his hand, so he turned and grabbed the skateboard. Holding it in both
hands, he raised it high above his head. “Giggles says, you DO!” he brought the
skateboard down with all his might, right on Grumpo’s neck. The cracked and broken
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edge of the board cut flesh, severing her jugular vein. Blood erupted from her neck like a
volcano, painting the front of Giggles’s suit. “And now you got my suit dirty!” he
screamed, slamming the skateboard down again and again. He finally stopped, breathing
heavy, ragged breaths.
She was dead and nearly decapitated. “Well, jeepers, now nobody wants to see
you naked!” Giggles said. “Stupid whore.” Looking her over, he said, “You know what?
I still want to see.” He knelt next to Grumpo’s corpse and undid her bra. Or tried to. It
was trickier than he thought it would be. His hookers always did that for him. “How do
you…?” he asked, mostly to himself. Mostly, because, hiding among the trees not two
yards away, stood Jolly, hula-hoop in hand.
Not yet, thought Jolly. Not yet.
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Floofus sat leaning against the giant steel wall wishing she’d taken one of those
offers to be a stripper clown. At least then, she figured, she wouldn’t be here, forced to
fight for her life. She gripped the hockey stick with white knuckles, knowing that it
could be the difference between life and death for her. She wiped her nose on her oversized lace collar, tossing her red squeaky nose aside. She considered getting rid of her
large shoes, then thought better of it. You never know what kinds of things might lurk in
the dirt, she thought.
She stood and surveyed the wall for the hundredth time. Way too high up. Even
if she did manage to climb a tree and get up there, it was topped with razor wire and some
sort of electrical fence. For all she knew, there might be armed guards ready to shoot
down any clown trying to climb out. She was right. There were. She decided to follow
the wall around and see if there was a door or service panel or something that she could
jimmy open.
Floofus walked slowly, her eyes carefully examining the wall, searching for any
sign of weakness. A hundred yards later, there hadn’t been any. She paused for breath,
leaning on her hockey stick. Suddenly, she felt something poking her in the ribs and hot
breath in her ear.
“Don’t move, or you’re dead!” a voice hissed. The voice didn’t sound familiar at
all.
“Who are you?” she asked cautiously.
“Winkles. And you’re Floofus, soon to be dead.”
“No! Please! I’ll do anything you want!”
“Anything? Really?”
“Yeah, really! Just let me live!” Floofus never thought she’d be begging like
this, but desperate times and all that. “We can work together to take out the rest of them,
then I’ll let you win.”
Winkles scoffed. “Yeah, right. And I’m a millionaire.” She felt him move away
from her, his weapon still poking her in the ribs. Gripping her hockey stick with both
hands, Floofus quickly spun away from the weapon in her ribs and swung the stick in a
deadly arc. The barbed wire dug into Winkles’s hip and caught. Floofus pulled with
everything she had and tore a large chunk of flesh off of Winkles, taking pieces of his
lime green uniform with it. He screamed in pain and dropped the plastic garden gnome
he’d been carrying. Not one to miss an opportunity, Floofus struck again. This time the
wire caught Winkles on the chin, pulling flesh and paint away from his skull. As he fell,
she swung again, tearing the other half of his face off. Another swing, this time snagging
his throat. He was down, bleeding, on his back, but Floofus kept hacking away. Blood
and flesh flew from the hockey stick, painting the trees and wall with gore and blood. By
the time she finally stopped, there was nothing left of what was once the face of Winkles
the clown. She spit on him, saying, “Why’d you make me do that? I’m a good girl!”
She fell to her knees, sobbing wildly. “And you, stupid gnome, can kiss my
butt!” She picked up the garden gnome and threw it as hard as she could. It flew
between two trees and squarely struck Lady Puddin in the chest.
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Pappy knelt in the muck at the edge of the stream, drinking cold, clear, refreshing
water from his hands. He needed to find a way out, and he was sure it wasn’t through the
huge, steel wall. Maybe back in the building they’d started in? There had to be
maintenance tunnels or sewer drains or something in there, right? He took another sip
and headed back to where he started. He was sure he was being followed, though. He
heard twigs snapping behind him. He was still armed, and ready to do whatever it took to
keep himself alive. He kept moving, listening very carefully for the sound of movement
behind him. He’d ignore it as long as he could, only responding when he felt it was
absolutely necessary.
Maybe he’d get to the big building first, and convince whomever it was that they
could get out together. If-no, when-he got out of here, he was done with the clown
business. He’d sell all his stuff and get a job at a grocery store or as a garbage man or
something. Anything else, really.
He was still relatively young. He had his whole life ahead of him to find
something meaningful to do. Something different than what he was doing now. Maybe
he’d find work on a road construction crew. Or as a high school janitor.
Finally, he stepped into the clear area around the building. The doors he could
see were all closed. But, he thought, that doesn’t mean they’re locked. He stepped out of
the jungle, and was immediately tackled from behind by Zozo. Zozo kidney-punched
him, driving the half-inch long spikes on his cartoonishly oversized gloves into Pappy’s
back. Pappy swung wildly backwards with his machete, praying that he’d hit Zozo
somewhere, somehow. The kidney punches continued to rain down on him; he could feel
the blood running down his side. He kept thrashing about with his machete. Finally, it
hit something. Zozo cursed loudly and sat up. Pappy swung again, harder this time.
Another curse from Zozo. Pappy pushed off and sent Zozo flying. He jumped to his
floppy feet and spun, facing his attacker, machete in hand. Zozo was holding his cheek,
where a scarlet line punctuated the white paint. Streams of bright red blood dripped off
the spikes on the knuckles of Zozo’s gloves.
Zozo wiped his hand on his billowy white pants, and Pappy struck. He swung his
machete in a side-sweeping motion as he stepped toward Zozo, but his floppy shoe
caught on something and he fell. The jagged, rusty blade sliced across Zozo’s left knee,
ripping it open. Zozo jumped on Pappy’s back again, driving his spiky knuckles into
Pappy’s buttocks. Pappy slammed the machete up over his head, catching Zozo in the
back of the head. Again, Pappy pushed himself up and spun to face Zozo.
Zozo charged, and Pappy swung a hard downward arc with his machete. It
lodged deeply in Zozo’s bright orange mop of hair, crimson geysers spurting everywhere.
Zozo fell to the ground, blood pooling around him. Pappy put his oversized shoe on
Zozo’s head and yanked his weapon free. He knelt first by one hand, removed the glove
and put it on his own hand, then repeated the process with the other. He flexed his
fingers. A good fit. He felt powerful, undefeatable. He felt wet, bloody and sore.
He headed towards the building. There were five doors on this side. All were
locked. Five more on the north side. Again, all locked. Five more on the west. Same
result. And on the south side there stood only one door. A large overhead, roll-up type
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of garage door. He leaned the machete against the wall, grabbed the door handle and
pulled.
It squealed open, just a bit. He pulled harder. Another three inches, almost
enough for him to squeeze through. He pulled again, as hard as he could. The door
creaked open another four inches. That was enough for him to get in. He leaned against
the door to catch his breath, snatching up the machete as he did. He took a deep breath,
exhaled, and was slammed into the door by the large-ish violet body of Fumbles.
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9
Giggles almost had Grumpo’s bra undone, but his fingers were getting sore.
“Why aren’t these stupid thing made of Velcro?” he asked nobody in particular. “That’d
make things easier for a guy, y’know?” Frustrated and tired, he punched the corpse.
“Stupid cow! Why couldn’t you wear a sports bra or something?” He sat back, angry
and depressed. He rested his head on his knees, flexing his fingers to get some of the
stiffness out.
“Jeez, man, you’re sick!” Jolly spat, stepping out from his hiding space behind a
big tree. He twirled his hula-hoop on his right wrist absentmindedly. “It’ll be a joy to
take you out. Permanently!” He ran forward, the hula-hoop held high.
Giggles scrambled to his feet, his bat coming up as he did. The fat end of the
barrel caught Jolly in the stomach, knocking the breath from him and doubling him over.
Giggles raised the bat again and swung hard downwards. Jolly rolled to the side just in
time. The bat only barely whiffed his elbow. Jolly dove at Giggles’s knees, dragging the
older man to the ground. He rained a flurry of blows down upon the painted face of
Giggles, drawing blood from mouth and nose. The baseball had flown from Giggles’s
hand, landing too far away for him to reach. Instead, he grabbed a handful of dirt and
threw it in the eyes of Jolly. Jolly rolled away, rubbing at his face.
Giggles didn’t hesitate; he grabbed the discarded hula-hoop and leaped on Jolly.
He wrapped the thin plastic tube around the younger clown’s neck and pulled. He
twisted it, pulling it tighter and tighter. Jolly tried in vain to get his fingers under the
hoop, then gave up and tried to bury them in Giggles’s eyes. He slapped at Giggles’s
head, and at the ground, and at the hula-hoop that was slowly choking the life out of him.
“C’mon, boy! Die already!” cried Giggles, who was by no means a clown of
patience. “I got a whole buncha other fools that need to be offed!” Giggles squeezed
harder. He heard a crack. Two cracks. The hula-hoop split, sending Giggles flying
backwards. Jolly fell forward, still clinging tenuously to life. He wheezed in ragged,
shallow breaths. “Son of a clam!” snarled Giggles. He stepped up to Jolly and stomped
on his head. He stomped over and over again, his big, floppy shoe slowly but steadily
smooshing Jolly’s head flat. Blood and gore spilled out of cracks in the skull, the
squashed eyeballs, and the popped ears. His tongue lolled out of his mouth, not really
tasting the ground and the blood that stained it. With one last mighty stomp and a roar
that would scare a lion, Giggles put an end to Jolly.
“Who’s the jolly giant now, punk?” cracked Giggles, laughing insanely. “I am!”
His foot still on Jolly’s head, he struck a gladiator pose. “Who’s the king? Giggles is the
king! Hoo-ah!”
Giggles stepped back to admire his handiwork. “Well, your looks have definitely
improved, ya ugly cuss. But you look thirsty. Here, let Uncle Giggles help you out.” He
unzipped his suit, opened the boxers underneath, and let a stream of urine splash onto the
obliterated head of Jolly-that-was. He aimed into the space where Jolly’s mouth once
was, giggling aloud and singing a song: “Pee-pee-pee-puh-pee-pee! Jolly drinks my weewee! Slurp the yellow lemonade! It’s healthier than Gatorade!” Finishing up, he tucked
himself back in. “Well, that was refreshing. Now, ol' uncle Giggles better find some
more suckers to vacillate. Is that a real word? If so, is that the proper use? Ah, who
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cares? I’m gonna kill me some fools, get me some booty, and win me some millions!”
He set off toward the building they’d started from, skipping and humming “Camptown
Races,” blood-covered bat in hand.
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10
Lady Puddin stared in disbelief at the plastic gnome that now lay on the ground in front
of her. She looked at Floofus, then the gnome, then Floofus again. “Is that the weapon
they gave you?” Lady Puddin asked.
“No,” answered Floofus. “They gave me this!” She lashed out with the hockey
stick, catching Lady Puddin in the thigh. It pulled a small piece of fabric of Lady
Puddin’s red and orange costume, digging a small scratch into her flesh.
“Not bad,” said Lady Puddin. “But not as good as mine!” She cracked her
bullwhip in the general direction of Floofus but, having never swung a bullwhip before,
missed by several feet. The tip of the whip limped sheepishly into the leaves to Floofus’s
right. “Oh, poo!” she cried. She reeled the whip back in to try once more, but Floofus
was on her in a second, swinging the hockey stick for all she was worth. She caught
Lady Puddin with it a couple times in the side, then got it stuck in a tree branch above her
head. Lady Puddin continued to flail the whip uselessly as Floofus struggled with her
stick. Exasperated, Floofus gave up and tackled Lady Puddin. She slapped her face over
and over again as Lady Puddin struggled to block. A lucky swing from Lady Puddin
caught Floofus on the chin, sending her reeling sideways off Lady Puddin. Lady Puddin
got to her knees and swung closed fists at Floofus.
Floofus stumbled under the blizzard of knuckles, trying in vain to shield her face.
Trying to escape, she backpedaled, tripping over the discarded garden gnome. She struck
out blindly with her foot, catching the inside of Lady Puddin’s knee. Lady Puddin
collapsed next to Floofus on the ground, and the two women grappled with each other
Greco-Roman style. They rolled back and forth, neither woman able to gain the upper
hand, no punches landing. Floofus grabbed a fistful of Lady Puddin’s hair and pulled the
rainbow-colored wig right off. She shoved the wig in Lady Puddin’s face, temporarily
blinding the other woman. With her left hand, Floofus swung open-handed as hard as she
could. Her cupped palm closed with a thunderous SWAT! over Lady Puddin’s ear. Lady
Puddin screamed, holding her now-bleeding ear. Floofus kicked her in the chest, driving
the other woman backwards onto the ground. She kicked her in the ribs a dozen times,
then stomped on her fingers. Lady Puddin lay in a defeated ball, curled up on the jungle
floor with her hands over her head. Floofus picked up the garden gnome and kicked
Lady Puddin in the head. Lady Puddin, now mostly unconscious, flopped onto her back.
She grabbed at thin air in a desperate bid to cause some damage to Floofus. Floofus held
the garden gnome high and drove it down with all the strength she had left.
The paint-chipped red cap of the gnome slid violently into Lady Puddin’s mouth,
breaking teeth and forcing it open wider than it was meant to open. The point of the little
hat perforated the back of Lady Puddin’s throat, sticking into the ground. Not satisfied,
Floofus stomped hard on the base of the gnome, pushing it even further into Lady
Puddin’s wide open maw. With a final, sickening gurgle, Lady Puddin succumbed to the
blackness of death.
She didn’t know how to use a bullwhip anymore than Lady Puddin did, but she
didn’t want anyone else finding it and using it on her, either, so she rolled it up as tight as
she could and threw it high into the trees.
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Leaning contemplatively on her now-bloody hockey stick, Floofus chewed her lip
and furrowed her brow. Brushing a loose strand of red hair out of her face, she set off
towards the building she had started from.
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11
Pappy slammed into the metal garage door, the body that drove him there crushing him
into it. He heard something crack and felt a shooting pain in his side. His mouth
clamped shut, cracking a tooth. He swallowed a small piece of enamel. Whoever was
pushing against him delivered wild jabs to his kidneys, exactly where he’d already been
beaten. He knew he’d be peeing blood if he ever got the chance to pee again. The force
of the initial attack had caused him to drop his machete, so he reached over his shoulder
trying to find something to poke, grab, or scratch.
His finger finally found something to grab. Something wet and stretchy.
Something he could pull on, and pull he did. He pulled with every fiber of his worthless
being. He pulled until someone screamed and his finger snapped through something. He
saw the blood on his finger as he felt the weight pushing against him disappear. He spun,
ready to pound on the person that had turned his kidney into pudding.
He stopped cold, shocked.
It was a woman. Sure, she was kind of burly and armed with a hatchet, but
still…How would he put the beat-down on a woman? Even one in a ridiculous white and
violet clown suit with over-sized doily collar? As he stood stupefied, the woman swung
her blade. She swung wildly, taking no time to aim, so it only just snagged Pappy’s
sleeve, missing the skin by an inch or more. But it was enough to show him the thing
was sharp: it slid right through the fabric, leaving behind a clean, razor-straight cut. He
shook off his stupor just in time to sidestep her next attack. He swung for her back but
caught her right in the sphincter instead. Fumbles fell to her knees, one hand holding her
rump.
“Ow! Ow! Ow!” she cried. “What kinda sicko punches someone in the
butthole?” She spoke with a voice like sandpaper across an eyeball.
“The kind that hasn’t decided yet if he wants to live or die,” Pappy answered.
“The kind that’s not ready to give in just yet, either. And Steve Byrne.” He kicked at her,
catching the back of her skull with his heel. She turned and spun, the hatchet blade
cleaving through his shoe, missing his big toe by a centimeter. He instinctively yanked
his foot back and dove on her. Her hatchet skittered across the floor as he grappled with
her. Together, they rolled under the garage door into a large room decorated like a circus
on acid. Perversely smiling clown faces were mounted on every wall. A merry-go-round
of electric chairs and broken toilet seats spun lazily off to one side.
The rainbow-hued pair rolled across the concrete floor, trying to land a punch or
slap, until they hit the base of the merry-go-round. Sadly, Pappy was not on top at this
point. He had tight holds on Fumbles’s wrists, struggling as she fought to hit him. He
pulled hard, bringing her face to within inches of his. Taking advantage of the moment,
he headbutted her. His forehead slammed into the bridge of her nose. A sickening
crunch echoed through the large room as blood and snot exploded from her proboscis.
She fell to the side, leaning against the merry-go-round. He slapped her on the ear and
shoved her backwards. He climbed to his feet and kneed her in the chin. Pappy grabbed
Fumbles by the collar and pulled her up to her feet. He punched her in the stomach,
doubling her over. He took hold of the nape of her neck and shoved her head into the
bowl of one of the merry-go-round toilets. To her shock, there was water in it. Dirty,
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nasty, brown water. She struggled against him, but he held fast. He moved behind her,
using both hands and the weight of his body to hold her there, face down in the toilet
water. She gurgled the cold, nasty water in through mouth and nose, filling her lungs.
An eon later, she went limp. Pappy held her there for several minutes, just to make sure.
He didn’t want any surprises.
Finally satisfied, he let go. What once was Fumbles slowly fell to the floor.
Pappy picked up the hatchet, climbed into an electric chair, and rested.
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12
Giggles skipped across the open field to the big gray building, singing a twisted version
of “My Favorite Things.” “Stomping on puppies and strangling kittens, beating your
mom with my hot oven mittens….These are a few of my favorite things!” He stopped
when he saw the machete blade and blood spatters outside the big garage door. “Well,
pop my cherry and call me Reverend,” Giggles said. “Looks like somebody else got to
play. Hope they didn’t leave me out.” He picked up the machete and weighed it against
the bat. “Edged or blunt? Hmmmm….Tough call.” As he stood there considering his
options, he heard a hissing sound and found himself suddenly covered in a pink film.
“What the by-crochety?” He had just finished speaking when he was smacked in the
head with something metallic. It made a high-pitched DING! noise that echoed deep
inside his skull. He stumbled sideways as another hit caught him in the jaw. Giggles
blinked the pain away and struggled to see his attacker. It was Captain Loogie, only
blurrier. The Captain swung a can of Silly String in a high arc but Giggles caught the
intended blow with the kind-of-sharp edge of the machete. It dug itself two inches deep
into Captain Loogie’s forearm. Blood spattered Giggles’s face. He laughed.
“First blood: Giggles!” he bellowed. He twisted the blade more, cutting a
massive arc into the arm of Captain Loogie. The Silly String can fell to the ground,
useless. Giggles drove a big, floppy shoe into the groinal region of Captain Loogie. The
bleeding clown collapsed to the ground cupping his joy marbles. “This is too easy!”
complained Giggles. “One massive cut, a kick to the ball bearings, and you’re done.
Pansy!” He drove the heel of his left shoe into Captain Loogie’s temple. The sickening
crack was a clear indication that the clown was no longer in the “Still Breathing” column.
“Whatta let down!” Giggles whined. “I thought the opponents were supposed to
get harder the farther into the game you went? Oh, well. Another dead is another dead,
as Socrates once said.” Resuming his skipping, he headed into the garage using the
machete like Charlie Chaplain used his cane.
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13
Gently rubbing her split chin, Floofus slowly meandered into the open field surrounding
the big garage. She was tired. Extremely tired. She just wanted to go home, shower, curl
up on the couch with a box of Little Debbie Zebra Cakes, and watch something calm, like
“Near Dark.” She saw the open garage door and the machete and blood outside of it. She
didn't want to go anywhere near it right now, so she just sat down and leaned against a
tree, collecting her thoughts and her breath. She pulled her knees up to her chest and
rested her forehead on them. The tears started, then the sobbing.
She did not hear the slow footsteps approaching until it was too late. A giant
purple crayon with a razor-sharp tip punctured her stomach. She looked up into the sad
face of Snigglemeister as her life slowly drained out of her body.
Snigglemeister withdrew the crayon and knelt in front of her. “I'm sorry,” he said.
“But I need to win this.” He stood and turned away, walking slowly toward the garage as
Floofus's vision blurred, then went black. Then she saw nothing.
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Pappy didn't hear Giggles when he entered the garage. He was too busy trying to ignore
the pain in his kidneys, butt, and face. It wasn't working. He'd kill for an ibuprofen right
about now. Well, kill again. He actually didn't hear anything until a visceral roar sprang
up behind him. He turned to see what the fuss was, and was astonished to see
Snigglemeister leaping through the air, swinging a giant purple crayon at the head of
Giggles the Glorious. He watched in awe as Giggles, thirty pounds overweight and a
decade or two older (maybe three), deftly dodged the razor tip and swung his rusty
machete at the flying clown. The dull blade dug into the soft stomach flesh of the
younger clown. A rough edge caught on something inside. As Snigglemeister fell to the
ground, his intestines were yanked free of his abdomen by a guffawing Giggles.
He paused to admire his handiwork, his breaths deep and harsh. “Looks like the
Earth moved for you, my friend, and your bowels moved for me! I'm sorry. That one
sucked. I haven't had any time to prepare.” He looked up and saw Pappy sitting on one of
the electric chairs on the merry-go-round. And just what do we have here?” In his best
game show announcer voice, he said, “Looks like we got ourselves another contestant,
Bob!” He slowly walked toward Pappy, dragging the tip of the machete on the concrete.
It made a terrible noise, like nails on a blackboard mixed with Macy Gray's voice.
He was five yards away when a red and blue monstrosity flew out of the shadows
and drove Giggles to the ground. Somewhere deep inside the older man, something
snapped. Hallooza pinned Giggles to the ground, raising an ice skate high over her head.
With a quick swipe, the mostly-sharp blade sliced through the soft tissue of the blue
clown's neck. A river of blood gushed out out a ragged tear. Giggles tried to talk. All that
came out was, “Glurglegurgluhhurr...” He looked shocked. He thought he'd had this
sucker all wrapped up. Instead, he was bleeding to death on a cold concrete floor.
Hallooza spit in his face just before the lights went out forever. His very last
thought was: “That was mean. I could go for some Skittles right now.” Then he was
gone.
Pappy, being not a complete moron, moved as fast as he could, not wanting the
moment to escape him. He raised his hatchet as he ran and brought it down with all his
strength on the powder blue head of Hallooza. The blade cleaved easily into bone.
Hallooza was dead instantly. Pappy tried to yank the blade free, but only wound up
dragging the still bleeding corpse into a corner of the garage. He gave up then and went
back to Giggles to retrieve the machete.
He turned around just in time to take a cattle prod in the marble bag. He dropped
to the ground, cupping himself, the machete landing next to him. BuBu held his cattle
prod at the ready, prepared to deliver another painful jolt to the agonized Pappy. Instead,
he went tumbling to the floor, his fall preceded by the sound of rolling thunder. When he
crashed onto the floor, a gravelly voice bellowed, “STEEEEEEERIIIIIIIIKE! Two more
and I win a turkey!” It was BellyJean, ready to take a sucka down.
BellyJean ran over to BuBu and started swinging his mighty fists. BuBu swung
his cattle prod. He caught BellyJean in the ribs. BellyJean stumbled backward, anguished
cries emitting from his heavily made-up mouth. BuBu stood and followed, jabbing
BellyJean with the prod, backing him toward a small door. He kept jabbing, small arcs
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jumping from prod to body, as BellyJean hit the door, then slid to the floor. BuBu pushed
the prod first into BellyJean's right eye, then his left. Screams that would be deemed to
frightening for a horror movie flooded the garage, echoing off the rafters. Smoke
billowed out of BellyJean's eye sockets, taking his life with him.
BuBu turned to face Pappy, who was still lying on the floor. “Your turn now,
Zippy.” He started a slow meander towards Pappy.
Pappy stood, bloodied and bruised. His pink and green outfit hung in shreds from
his pudgy, pasty frame. His once glorious fluorescent green hair was matted with blood,
large chunks pulled out by the roots, exposing the blood and bone underneath. One
floppy shoe was gone, the other chopped off at the tip by the razor-like hatchet of
Fumbles. His face paint was smudged; his exaggerated smile now a grotesque grimace of
agony, sadism, and pleasure. Hallooza lay in a heap in the corner, a bloodied bundle of
bright red and powder blue, oversized high heels broken but still worn. BellyJean sat
against the door, black, burnt out holes where his eyes had once been.
“Are ya ready, boyo?” Pappy asked, his once high and squeaky voice now coming
out like gravel from a dump truck, thanks to BuBu the Wacky’s cattle prod. “Come to
Pappy!” he roared, his broken, rusty blade held high above his head.
He leaped, blade seared flesh, and the last colorful combatant fell.
Pappy looked around the garage at the bloody mess. He couldn't believe the day he'd just
been through, but, to be honest, at least he'll get another day, unlike these others fools. He
wanted to rest, but was afraid of another sneak attack if he did. He heard a door open
somewhere behind him, he turned, machete high, and saw Peter Richard Bishop, flanked
by two very large men, saunter into the garage.
“Mr. Pappy?” Bishop asked.
“Y-yes?” Pappy stuttered in response.
Bishop smiled the smile of a hungry barracuda. “Congratulations! You've won!”
One of his escorts held a briefcase in front of him. Bishop opened it. “All this...is yours!”
Pappy lost his breath for a moment, looking at all that green.
“M-mine?”
“Indeed! Anything you'd like to say to the folks at home?” Bishop held up a small
camera.
Pappy stared into it, dazed.”T-thanks?”
“Thanks, indeed!” Bishop barked into the camera. “Ladies and gentleman, your
winner of the first season of BattleClowns, Mr. Pappy the Clown!” He clapped Pappy on
the back, tossed the camera to one of his escorts, and said, “All you have to do now is go
home, take that briefcase with you, and enjoy life! There is an airplane to take you
home.”
“Where-where are we?” Pappy asked.
“Oh, you never mind that, son. Just get in the car and it'll take you to the runway.”
Pappy did as he was told. The car was a nice Lincoln with windows tinted so he couldn't
see out. The drive didn't last long, maybe ten to fifteen minutes, and then it rocked to a
stop. One of Bishop's escorts led him by the arm to a waiting propeller plane. He walked
up the short staircase and sat in one of two seats.
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He was alone in the plane, save for the two pilots up front. The plane fired up,
taxied, and lifted off. He tried to peer out the window to see the landscape, but they, too,
were tinted on the inside.
He dozed. A deep, dreamless sleep.
A time later, he was awakened by strong hands shaking him about the shoulders.
“Clown guy! Wake the heck up!”
“Huh nuh wuzzuh?” He was still fuzzy from his nap, his head full of sand.
“Time to deplane,” the strange voice said.
“What?”
“Yeah. We're at your stop.”
“Oh. Okay.” He stood and let strong arms lead him to a door. The door was open.
Now, finally, standing on the threshold of the airplane door, Pappy realized the plane was
still airborne. He looked out and saw clouds below him, and, far, far below, rocky
ground.
“Wait, what?”
“You didn't really think we'd give a freakin' birthday party clown millions of
dollars, did you?” It was Bishop, smiling and smoking an expensive Cuban cigar. “Pat, if
you would?”
The man standing next to Pappy grunted and shoved. Pappy flew out the door,
plummeting toward land. Oddly, he wished he knew exactly where he was plummeting
to.
As he fell to his death, the last thing Pappy thought was, “Was my Batman Pez
dispenser full when I left home, or do I need to get refills.”