Clown World: Issue 1 -

by Frank Endert

Chapter 3

  Planet Rube:

  New Knuckles City (The Executive ICLOWN building)

  A new employee woke up in a storage closet. Standing up, he glanced at his left hand. There was a pain haunting his senses: a phantom injury. His hand was not a human flesh tone, but a powdery pale grey. Several thin, jagged, markings on his left hand spread out like angry snow flakes. He thought it may be some kind of infection or bruise. Distracted, synapses of a previous memory steeped into his head - electrical burn. Lethargic and drained, he lost his thoughts about the injury, and started to wonder where he was - even, who he was.

  "Wow, I have no clue."

  Perspiration seeped from his forehead as he grew panicky.In the corner of the storage room, he spotted a big industrial sink; it was the type a janitor uses to empty buckets of dirty mop water. Planted on the wall, a cheap thin mirror looked at him. He saw his reflection and passed out.

  Moments later, he woke up on the floor. Inspecting himself for injury, he noticed, for the first time, that he was dressed in a uniform. Stylish but practical, he wore an upgraded version of dungarees; a collared button-up shirt, dress shoes, and a leather belt. The entire ensemble was colored gun metal grey. In sewn blue lettering, resting in a capsule shaped field of beige, his name tag read: 'Seven'.

  Seven? My name is Seven? I don't get it."

  Above his name tag, in bold capital letters, read: ICLOWN.

  Laughing, "I, certainly, am."

  Seven turned back to face the mirror. This time he was prepared.

  Contrary to his grayish skin, Seven had colorful makeup applied to his face, with a base color of flesh tones (pink, tan, reddish brown) on his face and neck. His eyes and nose were covered in a bright titanium white; it accentuated his mouth and produced a wide-eyed expression. Designs in and around his eyes and mouth were outlined in black. Seven wore a comedic prosthetic nose, the color of a dark cherry. He donned a plum pork pie hat with orange-dyed pheasant feathers sticking out of it. Touching his cheeks, the make-up didn't smear," I am a clown?"

  From the corner of the storage room, a female voice answered, "You are a new employee of ICLOWN."

  Seven jumped at the response. Refusing to show further surprise, he turned and faced the woman, as if it wasn't a big deal. At least, it appeared that it was a woman. Layers of flowing smoke surrounded and clung to her, like clothing - except it was swirling about her. Her face was hidden in a cloud, while the fog danced about her. Observing a bare leg, shoulder, and other private bodily features, Seven established that she must be nude within the smoke.

  In a mono-tone voice, "So, are you here to train me?"

  She responded, "You just got here didn't you? Having a little trouble, knowing what happened or who you are, maybe? Small lazy clouds of smoke drifted about her face. "It sent me here, before you. I don't know why."

  "It?"

  "Yes, it. The Imago Mundi."

  Baffled, "The Imago Mundi," Seven agrees, "Of course. Why not?"

  "Cute. Don't worry. I have been here for several weeks. The memories will catch up with you - eventually."

  From the smoke, she stretched out her right arm. From her hand, she offered a large worn out coin purse with a leather fastener; the strip was drawn tight, securing the contents inside of it.

  Seven accepted the gift. Something heavy and soft was in it. Tossing it up in the air and catching it, a 'Ssssst' noise came from the coin purse. "Well it is not money," He tossed and caught the coin purse, again, "What is it? Sand?"

  "Something far more valuable than sand or money, It is Chalk."

  "Chalk. Great. What am I supposed to do with it?"

  "Don't worry. You are Forgifta - one of us. She made an urging gesture with one of her hands. "Soon, your passions will burn and you will grow hungry."

  "Hungry, yes. And?" Seven waited for a response and received none. "Am I supposed to eat Chalk to fill my appetite?" Seven saw the smoky woman roll her eyes.

  "Well, that is one way of doing it. As I said, you are part of the Forgifta, when your mission is complete, we will train you how to capitalize on the use of Chalk."

  "Sorry, but I am even more confused with your talk of Chalk and the Forgifta. And, and, the mission. What mission?"

  "Why don't you try it?"

  Seven’s eybrows raised with annoyance, “Try it.” He shrugged, "Why the hell not?"

  He slackened the leather strap and widened the opening of the coin purse with his fingers. The substance inside the purse was powdery and gritty. Palming the purse with one hand, Seven licked the pad of his right index finger and jammed it into the Chalk. Sticking his moistened finger into his mouth, the Chalk formed a consistency of a paste filled with tiny shards of glass. It tasted bitter, as if he bit into a raw horse radish, wrapped in seaweed, and sprinkled with coffee grounds.

  Slackening his puckered face Seven said, "More valuable than money? Wow!"

  The woman smiled, "Yes, on Rube, Chalk is everything. Those who control the Chalk, own this world. You will see, soon enough."

  Getting past the initial revulsion, all of Seven's worries and doubts flooded out of him via his sweat glands. The more he perspired, the more he felt as if he was some kind of new God, ready to create and destroy at will. His eyes began to sparkle with spiritual lust. He was alive and, intensely, aware of it. Seven smiled, "Niiiiicccceee!"

  The woman gave up a laugh, "Yes. Isn't it"

  Seven radiated with an aura of uninhibited joy. "Hey! Hey, I never asked. What is your name? And, why does the smoke cover your face?"

  "My name is Markshora and this is why."

  From the cloud emerged a scowling bald head, a face strewn with burnt flesh and a mouth full of black cindering teeth."

  More fascinated than scared, Seven fell back and bashed his back against rack full of cleaning supplies, "Whoa! You aren't kidding sister; that is some face you got there."

  "Yes. This is my war face. You want a kiss?" Markshora laughed, again, amused by Seven's honesty. "The men I meet, lately, don't get a chance to see my face more than once in a life time."

  "Wow, and I thought the sulfur smell of the smoke was over-powering. Is there someone burning dog fur in here?"

  "I am one with nature, a force to be reckoned with. I am a warden of the Wyrd."

  "Weird is right, sister. I mean Markshora. Phhttt. I am feeling too darn good right now. It is as if this world is sucking into every pore on my skin and telling me the secrets of the stars - or something."

  "That is all well and good. The Chalk affects every Forgifta member - differently. It also provides separate powers to each member of the clan. Only we Wyrd dwellers know how to apply the powers of the Chalk, respectfully. "

  Morkshora tilted her head as she stared at Seven. His eyes sparkled with rapture, as his smirk curled menacingly, excentuated by the ICLOWN make up.

  "Baah! This ICLOWN, this plague of miner colonies, they claim to own rights to everything."

  "What do they think they own?"

  "What else? Chalk. They refine it, manufacture their goods with it, use it as an energy source, supplement their food with it, and run the Rube economy on it."

  Eyes fully dialated, Seven responded, "Ah, yes. Chalk," he looked up to the ceiling, as if summoned, "Chalk is everything. Chalk is all that matters; Chalk is wonderful."

  "Glad you agree."

  Markshora reached out with her right hand; it contained an aluminum-based inter-office envelope. Accepting the package, Seven observed the dimensions of the envelope with great scrutiny and care, "What is it?"

  Markshora answers, "It is a message for Bingoman. He is an ICLOWN executive; his office is down the hall."

  "Hall? What , hall?"

  "There is only one hall, Seven. Go all the way down. It's the corner office. Deliver this to his desk."

  "Yes, yes. Okay, then what?"

  "Go down to the lobby and check the huge directory map on the wall. Find out where the Munitions department is located and go there to s
how up for work."

  "Wait. Aren't you coming with me?"

  Markshora nodded negatively. "No. You will see me soon enough - I am sure."

  "Huh?"

  “You will be contacted later.”

  Before Seven could question her further, Markshora evaporated into an entity of pure smoke and spiraled down the drain of the janitor's sink.

  Seven protested, "Nice. Nice," Looking around the bleak janitor’s closet," It appears I do not have a choice."

  Adjusting his hat and straightening his belt, Seven prepared to do what was asked of him. Opening the storage room door, he slid the coin purse into his pocket, and made his way to the corner office. Surprised to find no one working on the entire floor of the building, he entered through Bingoman's unlocked office door and dropped the envelope on the executive's desk.

  Looking out of the office windows, Seven viewed some kind of metropolis below him - strange and industrial. He felt that he was standing on some kind of high tower, an unimaginable amount of stories high, to the point of catching a slight bit of vertigo. Light headed, Seven backed away, slowly, from the windows and exited.

  Making his way back into the hallway, he found an elevator. Pressing the bottom black button, he waited, while pinching a bit of Chalk from the coin purse in his pocket. Bracing himself, Seven stuck his pressed finger and thumb in his mouth, tolerating the bitter taste of the substance. As Chalk infiltrated into his system, everything seemed to make sense, again. The descent from the 42nd floor to the lobby seemed to last a small eternity.

  Seven was having difficulty differentiating himself from his surroundings, as if the metallic booth of the elevator, the air, and his own presence were one breathing entity. The whisperings of low voices were vying for his attention, although he was alone. They were telling him things he already knew, like they were some oracle of ancient wisdom. The voices clued him into what was going to happen next and he nodded with an enlightened acceptance to his impending destiny.