I
Batso the Clown had removed his shock of exploded looking red hair on coming into the room. As he crossed from the door to the seat at his makeup table, he kicked off each shoe into the corner. That is where they customarily resided when unworn. He slipped the suspenders off of his shoulders and then he sat to wipe away the monstrous clown makeup that made him so feared by young children and the more credulous adults. Before moving the cloth over his face he stared at his image and smirked, recalling shrieking little children, one of whom babbled, “Clown going to eat me up,” on the way to clamoring into his indulgent father’s arms at today’s performance. Then the monstrous clown rubbed and blotted away the makeup. Behold! Batso’s face was clean and now he was just Elmer Barns, in for the day.
As he left the chair, his stomach was heavy from a recent meal. The food would make the cigar he stuck in his mouth all the more satisfying. Feeling a bit weary, he eased into his recliner and reached for the remote. Scarcely had Elmer clicked the TV on when he heard a commotion out on the porch. Then silence. He believed it was a neighbor’s dogs making the noise, and he listened for more. Sitting still to be sure he heard it right. The commotion began again. They were not dog sounds at all. Those were human feet out there; he became certain of it. At least two sets and maybe more. He awaited the expected knock. Probably neighborhood kids, he decided, after nothing happened. Doggedly chewing the cigar, he began channel surfing.
The images clicked by until a face he recognized caught his eye and he let the device in his hand rest. Onscreen was a broadcast of an old series, but it was better than the news channels. Anything was better than that. He hated news.
Before his ears locked on the dialog, a faint knocking sounded from outside. Well, damn. He pushed himself out of the soft chair and slipped on his jacket, then trod heavily to the door to turn the lock. When he eased it out a crack there was a force from the other side that pushed open the door and bowled him out of the way. A very large man entered his home. It was, in fact, a very large clown, nearly seven feet of clown.
The tall clown went to the center of the room and pivoted on one foot to turn and watch as a really small clown toddled in. The really small clown was followed by an in-between clown as thin as a wafer. And behind him strolled a normal-sized clown with a top hat and a paunch.
Astonished, then outraged at being assaulted, Elmer made fists as he glared at them. He looked the giant clown up and down, at his china blue suit with a lavender flower at the lapel and a face with a red banana nose, wide eyes, and a happy grin. His gaze pivoted to the wafer skinny one with stripy shirt, pants that ballooned over really long red shoes, medium-sized red nose, and long yellow mop-like hair. The next clown had stubble painted on his face and carried a straight cane with a knob on top for a handle. The smallest clown had by now audaciously approached and regarded Elmer with extreme sternness. Elmer looked down at the clown’s big head and babyish body, clothed by an undersized tee shirt and a diaper. He guessed by their demeanor this one had to be the leader.
“Little Dumpling is the name,” the smallest clown said, scowling viciously. “My colleagues are, Cool Hand Bert the Giant Clown, Taffy the Stick, and Major Bulldog (note the jowls).”
Little Dumpling poked Elmer’s knee with a finger. “You are Batso the horrible. We caught your act the other day.”
Elmer’s anger began to soften. “You bought tickets for my act?”
The little clown gave Elmer a further rendition of stink eye. “If you wanted to know what real clowns do, you should have seen us in the circus at Jenner and South Walnut this afternoon. We’re fun. We make people happy.”
“Yeah: Our crazy car and madcap antics,” Taffy gushed.
Those statements roused Elmer’s contempt. He said, “That’s fun? Drive screwy cars? Run in circles and fall down? I happen to know that nobody goes to the circus anymore. Know why? It’s boring. You‘re boring.”
Little Dumpling reached inside his diaper and pulled out some Silly Putty, the color of excrement. He plopped it on Elmer’s shoe and smeared it with his palm. “It’s you,” he said. “People become jaded because yokels like you give clowns a bad reputation. They see a perversion of tradition that brings on condescension and contempt for real clowns. Fear, even.”
The little clown’s harangue had Elmer sneering. “Have you seen movies like The Joker?” he said. “It’s what people expect. You guys are the Brownies of the 21St Century. Nobody even knows what Brownies are anymore. That’s why you are Brownies. Nobody cares anymore. The public wants Batso. Because they love hating clowns.”
“Well,” Bulldog said, waving a big yellow gun, “There’s going to be one less clown to hate, shortly.”
He stood behind Little Dumpling with the gun pointed just below Elmer’s sternum.
“That’s not a gun,” Elmer said. “This is a gun.”
As Elmer’s fingers clenched on the gun handle behind his jacket, Bulldog fired the yellow gun. It shot a tiny syringe into Elmer’s flesh. A stab of pain caused him to say, “Ow.”
He tried his best to pull his gun clear of the holster, which action is hard to execute if one is losing consciousness and falling at the same time.
“I’m going for the bag,” Bert announced, looking down at the fallen ex-clown. “I brought the one that looks like a rolled-up carpet.”
“Good choice,” said Little Dumpling. “It should fit in the same dumpster where we just threw Big Orson’s body. Then we will need to scout a new location for Bleeds-O before paying him a visit next month."
As he left the chair, his stomach was heavy from a recent meal. The food would make the cigar he stuck in his mouth all the more satisfying. Feeling a bit weary, he eased into his recliner and reached for the remote. Scarcely had Elmer clicked the TV on when he heard a commotion out on the porch. Then silence. He believed it was a neighbor’s dogs making the noise, and he listened for more. Sitting still to be sure he heard it right. The commotion began again. They were not dog sounds at all. Those were human feet out there; he became certain of it. At least two sets and maybe more. He awaited the expected knock. Probably neighborhood kids, he decided, after nothing happened. Doggedly chewing the cigar, he began channel surfing.
The images clicked by until a face he recognized caught his eye and he let the device in his hand rest. Onscreen was a broadcast of an old series, but it was better than the news channels. Anything was better than that. He hated news.
Before his ears locked on the dialog, a faint knocking sounded from outside. Well, damn. He pushed himself out of the soft chair and slipped on his jacket, then trod heavily to the door to turn the lock. When he eased it out a crack there was a force from the other side that pushed open the door and bowled him out of the way. A very large man entered his home. It was, in fact, a very large clown, nearly seven feet of clown.
The tall clown went to the center of the room and pivoted on one foot to turn and watch as a really small clown toddled in. The really small clown was followed by an in-between clown as thin as a wafer. And behind him strolled a normal-sized clown with a top hat and a paunch.
Astonished, then outraged at being assaulted, Elmer made fists as he glared at them. He looked the giant clown up and down, at his china blue suit with a lavender flower at the lapel and a face with a red banana nose, wide eyes, and a happy grin. His gaze pivoted to the wafer skinny one with stripy shirt, pants that ballooned over really long red shoes, medium-sized red nose, and long yellow mop-like hair. The next clown had stubble painted on his face and carried a straight cane with a knob on top for a handle. The smallest clown had by now audaciously approached and regarded Elmer with extreme sternness. Elmer looked down at the clown’s big head and babyish body, clothed by an undersized tee shirt and a diaper. He guessed by their demeanor this one had to be the leader.
“Little Dumpling is the name,” the smallest clown said, scowling viciously. “My colleagues are, Cool Hand Bert the Giant Clown, Taffy the Stick, and Major Bulldog (note the jowls).”
Little Dumpling poked Elmer’s knee with a finger. “You are Batso the horrible. We caught your act the other day.”
Elmer’s anger began to soften. “You bought tickets for my act?”
The little clown gave Elmer a further rendition of stink eye. “If you wanted to know what real clowns do, you should have seen us in the circus at Jenner and South Walnut this afternoon. We’re fun. We make people happy.”
“Yeah: Our crazy car and madcap antics,” Taffy gushed.
Those statements roused Elmer’s contempt. He said, “That’s fun? Drive screwy cars? Run in circles and fall down? I happen to know that nobody goes to the circus anymore. Know why? It’s boring. You‘re boring.”
Little Dumpling reached inside his diaper and pulled out some Silly Putty, the color of excrement. He plopped it on Elmer’s shoe and smeared it with his palm. “It’s you,” he said. “People become jaded because yokels like you give clowns a bad reputation. They see a perversion of tradition that brings on condescension and contempt for real clowns. Fear, even.”
The little clown’s harangue had Elmer sneering. “Have you seen movies like The Joker?” he said. “It’s what people expect. You guys are the Brownies of the 21St Century. Nobody even knows what Brownies are anymore. That’s why you are Brownies. Nobody cares anymore. The public wants Batso. Because they love hating clowns.”
“Well,” Bulldog said, waving a big yellow gun, “There’s going to be one less clown to hate, shortly.”
He stood behind Little Dumpling with the gun pointed just below Elmer’s sternum.
“That’s not a gun,” Elmer said. “This is a gun.”
As Elmer’s fingers clenched on the gun handle behind his jacket, Bulldog fired the yellow gun. It shot a tiny syringe into Elmer’s flesh. A stab of pain caused him to say, “Ow.”
He tried his best to pull his gun clear of the holster, which action is hard to execute if one is losing consciousness and falling at the same time.
“I’m going for the bag,” Bert announced, looking down at the fallen ex-clown. “I brought the one that looks like a rolled-up carpet.”
“Good choice,” said Little Dumpling. “It should fit in the same dumpster where we just threw Big Orson’s body. Then we will need to scout a new location for Bleeds-O before paying him a visit next month."
II
When they showed that evening, the circus owner and manager, E. Pluribus Koontz, met the clowns at the entrance. "Don't bother," he said. "We have a replacement act. Seems people were yawning and leaving early when you were on. Pick up your check in the office Monday morning."
When they showed that evening, the circus owner and manager, E. Pluribus Koontz, met the clowns at the entrance. "Don't bother," he said. "We have a replacement act. Seems people were yawning and leaving early when you were on. Pick up your check in the office Monday morning."
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