by Mike McCarty
Klowny turned and raised his pogo-umbrella again. “Time to klose up shop!”
With a sudden smack! the two halves lunged back together, katching the guards in the middle. Klowny whisked his gloves together like a housewife shaking flour off her hands.
“Hey, Boss,” Kitty-Boo said. “We’ve got kompany.”
Klowny turned around. Before him stood a tall, distinguished man in a white business suit, along with two elderly klowns.
“Hello, Klowny,” the tall man said. He smiled. “Nice of you to put my store back together.”
Klowny raised a bright red eyebrow. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
“Well, I believe you already know your parents...” The tall man gestured toward the klown kouple. “I am Lazlo Goldencalf, CEO of PharaohPlex.” He held out his hand. “Mazey-Belle and King Komedy have told me so much about you. They love you, Klowny. I think that deep down, you’re a great guy who might still have a bright future.”
“Shake the man’s hand and say you’re sorry, son!” Mazey-Belle said. “This krime spree of yours has got to stop! Lazlo is a good man! His kompany gives jobs to lots of grateful folks worldwide!”
“Do the right thing, my boy!” King Komedy implored. “It’s not too late to rehabilitate you and your gang. Lazlo has said that he’ll even pay for the therapy!”
“Horse nuggets!” Klowny kried. “My boys and me ain’t gonna become a bunch of slave-robots in suits! Plus, this old kreep sent a bunch of bulldozers to flatten us!”
Lazlo gasped. “They weren’t going to kill you! They were going to smooth the land around your kommunity so we kould start building you a proper town!”
“Yeah? And what about those security guards we just kreamed?” Klowny said.
“Security forces are instructed to greet newcomers and give them a guided tour!” Tears rolled down the old man’s face. “They didn’t even have guns!”
Rat-Butt hitched a thumb toward the CEO and the senior klowns. “I say we turn these three into Swiss cheese!” He pulled a miniature machine gun out of one of the pockets of his baggy tramp pants.
Lazlo shook his head sadly. “All I’ve ever wanted to do is make the world safe, efficient and productive. I’ve always felt that I kould trust my fellow man. Kould it be that I’ve been wrong?”
“That’s right, old man–but cheer up! You may be a moron, but you’ll make an excellent hostage!” Klowny turned toward his gang. “Tie up these three bozos and send a ransom note. Then bring the rest of the klowns here and set up kamp. Oh, and bring my shit-shed from behind the kathedral. That’s my favorite krapper!” He looked up at the fire on the mountain–he kould feel a wave of exhiliration stirring within his soul. “I’m going there alone, but I’ll be koming down soon with a big heapin’ slop-bucket of destiny!”
Klowny skipped up the mountain trail. Now that he had that goody-two-shoes Lazlo in his klutches, he figured it would be easy to deprogram his befuddled, brainwashed parents.
Even now and then he stopped to eat some berries or grapes or big, tasty grubs he found along the trail. The fruit made him a little queasy, but the bugs settled his stomach. He’d get some real food when he returned to kamp–he’d make a big fried-chicken, bacon and mint ice-kream sundae, smothered in tabasco sauce.
Soon he found himself approaching the red swirl of fire. It was, in fact, a huge, blazing...office plant.
A Flaming Fern.
It spoke to him in a happy, musical tone. “Welcome to the KlownZone. What’s shakin’?”
“Wow, I wish I’d known this place was so klose to KlownTown! I’d have stopped by sooner,” Klowny said.
Some of the leaves kurled into a smile. “This is just a temporary location. In fact, we’re here just to meet you!”
“In that kase,” he said, “I’d like to have a chat with the big guy.”
“Sure–it’ll be a minute, though. He’s on the trans-dimensional kommunicator right now.” The plant unfurled a long leaf his way, revealing a dish of white powder. “Here’s some Happy Dust to take the edge off your wait.”
“That’s mighty neighborly of ya,” Klowny said.
“No problem. It’s like the Boss says–‘If you’re not having fun, what’s the point?’”
Klowny took the dish and snuffed Happy Dust up each nostril, rubbed some on his teeth, and then put some in his ears and a little up his butt, too. By the time the Great Klown was ready to see him, he was flying high.
The Fern pointed toward a entryway made of huge chunks of basalt. Klowny passed through and found himself in an enormous toychest, filled with giant teddybears and dollies and playtime soldiers.
In the center of the chest stood a giant jack-in-the-box with purple and orange klown silhouettes painted on the sides. The giant toy began to play a strident war march. Then the lid sprang open, and a bloated, star-spangled spider-klown popped out, bobbing up and down on its rusty spring. Its only feature that was even vaguely human was its shiny red rubber nose. Its six eyes glowed red and green and yellow. Globules of teal venom spooled down from its barbed fangs.
The spider-klown waved its front legs in the air. Rat-Butt and Kitty-Boo materialized in the air, their arms and legs thrashing madly.
“Hey, what do you want with those two?” Klowny said.
“Need...” The voice of the Great Klown was like the thick, plopping purr of bubbling tar. “Something...to...write on...”
The next morning, Klowny appeared on a ridge overlooking the new Klown Kamp at the base of Mt. Rumba. He held in his arms two ragged skins, each etched with bloody sacred words.
“Listen up, you klowns!” he screamed. The people below began to kongregate at the foot of the ridge. “I’ve got some Dead Klown Skrolls here, and they kontain some important information. The Great Klown Himself took the time from His busy eternity to write down the rules of how you chuckleheads should live–so listen up, ‘kuz these are the Ten Klown-Mandments!”
Klowny kleared his throat, held up the skrolls and began to sing:
“Don’t dis the Klown, ‘kuz if you do,
He’ll turn you into sticky goo!
The Klown’s yer daddy! Them’s the facts–know your place or get the axe!
Put no other before the Klown:
He’s the King of dark renown!
Get a piece! It’s loads of fun–Klowny loves to shoot his gun...And if the Klown forgets to kall,
chill out or you’ll take a fall!
Go ahead and steal all day–Every Klown needs toys for play!
Your ass is mine, and so’s your mule–give ‘em here, don’t be a fool.
But still, each Klown’s one of a kind!
Kopykats a grave will find!
Every day’s a circus, buddy!
Have some fun or end up bloody!
Thou shalt kill in komedy!
A boring life is BLASPHEMY!”
Once he finished, Klowny looked out over the masses.
They were standing in neat rows, all holding hands.
In the center of the front row stood Lazlo Goldencalf. On each side of him stood his parents and the remainder of his posse.
“Great glistening gargoyle gonads!” Klowny wailed. “What’s going on here? I go off for two seconds and all heaven breaks loose!”
Gned the Gnat, who was riding on Lazlo’s shoulders, hung his head. “What kan we say, Boss? This guy’s got deep pockets–deeper than any klown’s. He gave us all great jobs with the korporation. We’re on his payroll now.”
Lazlo raised his shining eyes to Klowny. “There is work for you to do, too, my son. Just say the word.”
Klowny sneered. “I’ll do better than that! I have three words for all of you: KISS…MY…ASS!”
So saying, he ripped the skrolls to shreds and kame
storming down off the ridge.
“I kan’t believe it! I knock myself out, trying to kreate a world of wild, reckless fun for you goofballs, and what do you do? You go and get respectable on me! Well, doesn’t that just take the koconut kream pie!”
He marched right up to his private shit-shed. “Well, gang,” he said. “It was fun while it lasted, but frankly, now you washed-up wussy wimps make me wanna puke up everything I’ve ever eaten in my whole life. It’s a good thing I had a back-up plan, just in kase this kind of hog-feces ever hit the fan! So long, you miserable kluster of kanker-sores–‘kuz I’m outta here!”
He stepped into the krapper and klosed the door. For a moment, there was silence. Then, two aerodynamic fins sprang out on either side of the little building. The roof opened up and refolded itself into a nose-kone. As the krowd watched, the shit-shed transformed into a sleek shit-ship.
“Where kan he go in such a small rocket?” Lazlo whispered.
“It’s small on the outside,” Gned said, “but Klowny knows how to make his vehicles big on the inside. It kould be as big as a palace in there.”
The shit-ship sputtered, chugged and rumbled to demonic life. A flaming radioactive heat-blast poured out of vents in the base of the ship as it rose into the air. It circled several times over Lazlo and his new krew of korporate klowns, reducing them to glowing ashes.
Klowny then shifted into mega-ultra-hyperdrive, and his bright-orange shit-ship soared off into space, in search of a little kosmik fun.
Because every day is showtime.
City of Two-Thousand Sins
It was a city without a name.
Desert sands had buried the name of the city years ago. But most cities these days had no names anyway. After the depletion of all fossil fuel resources in 2060, the collapse of the world economy and the nuclear war in Mexico, North America was in ruins. Global warming completed the picture by baking the once-prosperous land into a barren dustbowl.
And names. Names weren’t a high priority anymore. One shithole settlement was pretty much the same as the next: no food, no water, no power, nothing.
At one time, the city must have been a place of opulence and excitement. Traces of its former glory could be seen everywhere. Marble walls and fountains. Crystal chandeliers. The ruins of gaming tables, stages and bars–yes, people had once had fun in this city.
The days of fun and games were long gone.
Jeb was the official sin-counter.
He was a tall, dark-bearded man with rugged features and surprisingly gentle eyes. He had numbers tattooed all over his body. On his face, he had a ‘24’ on one cheek and a ‘7’ on the other, with a ‘365’ on his forehead. He had a ‘111’ on each palm and a ‘222’ on the sole of each foot.
His task was to count the sins of those who dwelled in the nameless city. He recorded them all in his Sin Book, which rested on a podium in the Great Hall. This Hall, the spiritual center of their community, was the enormous lobby of their casino-hotel-church.
Each Sunday, he would read and number the sins.
“Sin one-thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-seven: Noah slept well past noon and did not do his morning chores,” Jeb read. He smiled as he handed Noah a red token.
The gathering crowd mumbled their approval.
“Sin one-thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-eight: Jonah ate bread without giving thanks,” Jeb read.
“That isn’t a sin,” Cain complained. “It was not a meal. One does not need to give thanks every time one eats some small morsel.”
“I’m too hungry to care,” Samuel rasped between dry, cracked lips.
The sunny days roasted the flesh and the windswept nights chilled it to the bone.
At one point, after the power went out, Herod removed all the Bibles from the hotel rooms and burned them in trash cans inside a supermarket. He had appointed himself leader, and he’d thought this action would serve his people well. After all, people were more important than books. The blaze kept everyone there warm all night. The previous night they had used menus and playing cards. Those hadn’t burned well because of their heavy lamination. They gave off sickening fumes and many people became ill. But the Bibles had burned splendidly. They kept everyone nice and warm.
Eventually the people turned against Herod. He hadn’t done anything wrong...But still, they needed to vent their frustration with the world somehow, and his helpfulness–his patient optimism in the face of maddening despair–had become an annoyance.
A group assigned to the task tied him down outside of the tallest building in the city. Then they went up to the top and starting dropping things down on him out of a penthouse window. There was no special significance in this particular form of torture: it just seemed like the thing to do at the time. In the end Herod was reduced to a pile of human slush embedded with a medley of broken everyday objects–everything from wine glasses to typewriters.
“You know the rules, Cain,” Jeb said. “If we all don’t agree that a particular act is a sin, then it has to be put to a vote.”
“Please, don’t,” David begged. “Let’s not waste time–I’m famished. The last thing I put in my mouth was a cockroach I’d caught, and I threw up a minute later. I’m so hungry. I’ll die if I don’t get some food soon.”
“I don’t make the rules,” Jeb said. “I just count the sins. And I shall always do so, until the day we are all too weak to even move. It is my task. I answer to a higher power.” So saying, he looked up, as did everyone else in the Great Hall.
There was a time, in the early days after the chaos started, when the people in the town went a little crazy. The death of Herod set the pace for even more bizarre acts of cruelty, prejudice, and–more often than not–perverse righteousness.
Angry crowds strung up sinners from telephone wires. They burned animals and children alive to appease ancient demons. They crucified all the lawyers of the nameless city. Of course, back then it had a name.
The city had been filled with lewd women with painted lips. Pious men would chain each limb of a woman to a different car, and then the vehicles would each drive toward a different point of the compass. They thought that perhaps this would give direction to their future. But that future was lost in a haze of heat and toxic fumes.
“We have to take a vote on it,” Jeb said. “All who think it was a sin for Jonah to eat without giving thanks must now say ‘Aye.’”
A loud, hungry round of ayes echoed through the hall. Jeb did not bother to ask to hear nays.
A young boy in the crowd gasped and fell to the floor. Sarah, an emaciated woman with bleeding gums and many sores on her skin, rushed to his side and cradled his head in her lap. “My son is weak from hunger,” she cried. “If we do not have some food soon, he will starve to death.”
Desperate for something–anything–with which to nourish her child, the woman picked a few large scabs off her arm and pushed these into her son’s mouth. The boy chewed gratefully.
Years passed, and many people took to living in cars. There was no gasoline left, but they still loved and took pride in their vehicles.
All the cars in town were rolled toward the casino-hotel-churches. People weren’t allowed to live in these holy realms–they were a place for the purging of iniquities. Of course, that was before they realized the true value of sin.
The cars were nice little homes. To keep warm, they buried them in the sand. They took out the engines to make more room. Families huddled in their cars, in the cozy darkness. It became traditional to fasten the baby’s cradle in place on the dashboard, so the wee one could reach up and play with the fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror. From this choice location within the car, the baby could also be entertained by watching the insects and vermin that crawled on the other side of the front windshield.
“It is agreed upon. Jonah did sin by not giv
ing thanks for his morsel. That leaves the count at one-thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-eight,” Jeb handed Jonah a green token. “Is there any other sin I should record?”
The group was quiet. One could not make up a sin–for that they would cut out one’s tongue, and fill the offending mouth with hot coals. There was words about that in all those old Bibles–“a tongue for a tongue”? Something like that.
“I had indecent thoughts about Jezebel,” Matthew said. “I thought how delightful it would be to fornicate with her for long hours, well into the night.”
“Yes, that is a sin,” Jeb said, writing it down quickly and handing Matthew a gold token. “That is sin one-thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-nine. Any more?”
In the old days, back when there was power and cars were used for transportation, people paid good money to sin.
They watched half-naked women prance upon lighted stages. People use to gamble all night and all day. They dance, they gorged, they fought, they swore. There was even a whorehouse on the outskirts of town. The brothel did not operate in secret–it was an acknowledged business, and the employees even counted their purchases of sex toys and prophylactics as business expenses.
The country went up in smoke because they didn’t watch their sins.
During the crazy times, they were less efficient when it came to dealing with sin. At times they even wasted precious foodstuffs. Some sinners would be covered in honey and then buried up to their necks in sand. They would then let armies of red ants chew them alive. Thus would they gnaw away the sins of the world. These tiny, industrious insects were the first sin-eaters.
But not the last.
When the Bibles were burned, one page–from the Book of Mark–had been caught by the wind and blown free. And this page told them a tale of wisdom. It told them all about Legion, a demon who was in fact a collective of evil spirits. Eventually they learned how to apply this wisdom to their lives, so that they might survive.
Jeb ignored the hungry growls of the crowd. “If no more sins are recorded, we must wait until the next Sunday when we meet.”
