Parareality Induced By Trauma : Episode 3

The side of my face explodes in pain and i take a step away from the road as i try and figure out what is going on. I hear an engine rev and someone yell “ why so serious?” and laugh as they peel off.

This shit happens more than you would think.

But there is no blood, a plus, i guess seeing as i am on my way to my third gig today. I have often wondered what makes people feel the need to throw things at clowns. Once i started doing this on a professional basis one of the first things i learned was to watch for missiles from the audience, people on the street, hell, even the guy that hired you will sometimes toss a sandwich or wad of garbage your way. The vast majority of society have trouble with the concept that a clown is a job, not a way of life. We are one of the oldest forms of actors out there, long before people wrote plays , or films, or radio sketches, someone was putting on makeup and making an ass out of themselves.

At times like this i really wish my car hadn’t been repossessed. Waking from gig to gig is pretty much inviting this crap , but what are you going to do? I’ve spent the last 12 years making a career out of this, and to be honest the thought of flipping burgers , or cleaning toilets is more unpleasant to me than people with closeted cases of coulrophobia trying to get over their fear.

And the worst part of it is, it hasn’t always been like this. Up until the past 3 years or so i was having a pretty epic life as far as a modern clown goes. Two guiness records when i was 18 ( most single handed juggled objects, and highest landed backflip. ) , and i invented a product that since 2003 has been in heavy use by every clown out there. A palm sized device that holds helium, carbon dioxide, and pure oxygen. Put simply, it is a way to have an array of funny voices with the added bonus of not dying from asphyxiation. ( believe it or not there is practically a graveyard filled with clowns that have died trying to attain the perfect funny voice with dangerous gasses. ). Only problem was that the mechanism was too simple and i couldn’t get a patent. Now my device is being sold en masse and i don’t receive one red cent. My goal in life is to be laughed at, but this is going a bit too far.

I base my costume on the classic french harlequin with a bit of modern auguste. A loose fitting red suit coat with half sleeves, under this is a long sleeved blue and yellow shirt, my pants are knee shorts with stripped blue and yellow socks showing just above a set of red boots( one of my favorite parts, only a size too big, i find the spray painted army boots to give a nice balance to the rest of the costume.). I tend to stick to more western makeup, as kids seem to respond better to this. I am one of the few clowns who actually avoids a wig, my hair is bright purple, dyed on a weekly basis and tucked under a baseball cap on my days off. ( which lately have been about 2 a month.)

My heart is racing a bit, not from the soda can that hit me, but from what i am going to do today. The past year, things have been really tight, any gig i can get tends to get bargained down to about half price, and the sad thing is that i am happy to take it. In the age of video games and anime, kids really don’t give a shit about clowns. We are the etch a sketches of the modern entertainment toybox. And because of this i have had to supplement my income in a few less than honest ways. A password circumvention program and a good sixth sense as to where to look can get you access to credit card information in about 5 minutes. I don’t take much, usually about 200 from the people, and only if they can spare it. But i still feel like hell about it. This is not how i envisioned myself at age 28, an unknown birthday party performer/petty criminal. If there is one upside, it is that no one suspects the clown. A husband is more likely to assume his wife sneaked some money to go out for a night on the town with the girls, than that the buffoon that came over for his kid’s birthday had the smarts to steal his credit card information.

I stand by the front door and take in a big steadying breath , i actually still love my job. Watching kids get a kick out of a failed backflip, then get an even bigger one as a six foot three clown manages to do a flip over their head , that is the point of being a clown. What isn’t the point is dealing with a cheap prick who wants to bargain you down after the service is preformed. Or a bitch housewife who thinks that the 40 dollars they paid you for a 6 hour party gets her a clown maid to clean up the puke, cake and spilled soda. But it is all part of the game.

I knock on the door and within a minute i see a rather husky looking guy answer, nice clothes, glasses, and in decent shape. This being said the half mullet he is rocking makes me think that he would make a damn fine clown. Juxtaposition is one of the easiest ways to get a laugh.

“ I guess your the clown?” he says. After hearing this a few hundred times it makes me want to reply with a comment similar to “ no, the plumber.” But i have enough trouble getting jobs as it is, so i jump into clown mode instead.

“ I sure am, and are you the birthday boy!?” i say ducking under his arm, which he has baring the door. I give him a big shit eating grin and cock my head to the side. The guy is as tall as myself, and seems pretty unimpressed with my attitude, jovial as it may be.

“ for christ sake....” he mutters , i catch an eye roll as he leads me through the house. A nice three floor affair, it looks like these people have some serious coin to throw around. Which makes me feel better about my current plan. This guy would miss 200 bucks like i would miss 4 crackers by the looks of it.

“ Why ya so sad on your birthday?” i say after taking a puff of helium, the device fits nicely in the palm of one’s hand and i am pleased to say that it did get , if not an amused, at least a curious reaction from this guy. At this point i am just screwing with him. I find nothing more annoying than someone who can be serious around a clown.

I see an opening and hit the floor, propelling myself forward between his legs and standing all in 2 practiced movements ( Clown collage being essentially a giant training camp for gymnastics and learning to hurt yourself.), to end up facing him about 6 inches away, i hold up a small box tied with a bow.

“ Would a present help big guy? No one wants to be sad on their birthday” I grin again, and the guy actually shoves me a bit as he opens a screen.

“ Can you drop the schtick maybe? I am paying you to entertain the kids not piss me off. “ He says as i catch a glimpse of the party.

Not the best, and not the worst, a pretty standard circus themed party, and trust me i have seen a few. Personal opinion is that this guy could have afforded a bit better than this ( and if we’re being honest, me.) for his kid, but who am i to judge? I am a thieving clown that is rapidly approaching becoming an alcoholic.

I take a running start out the door and another puff of helium, i forward flip into a faceplant ( the trick is to hit your forehead and recoil as fast as possible. ) and grab my nose as i stand up. No one knows what to think. I move my hand a bit to reveal some red colored cloth. Everyone gasps, as they make the decision that i really did just smash my nose into a bloody pulp. I wait a moment , just until the mother ( a decent enough looking , though somehow obviously bored with life 40 something. ) goes to put her hand over the kids eyes. And with a flourish i throw up an intricately folded silk cloth that spins in the air showering the partygoers with sparkling confetti. I hold my hands out to the side and say in a jovial, manic voice “ Who’s ready for some giggles!”.

Two hours in i decide its best to get what i need to get done , done. I inform the father ( who has been rolling his eyes enough to generate electricity. ) i am going for a smoke break , and he nods. Out of our interactions today , this was the most pleasant.

It disturbs me how good i am becoming at this, within a minute i find the computer room, and within another two my thumb drive circumvents the password protection. ( personally i am no computer whizz, but in the internet age, all it takes is knowing what to download.). My heart stops cold in my chest. If i were to take off my makeup i don’t think anyone would notice a difference.

For the first second i assume that it is just a normal porn site, but almost immediately i realize it is the fucking desktop. I recognize the father, the other 6 or so people ( all men of pretty much the same age), not so much, but i do recognize the person standing in ill fitting lingerie in the middle of the room.

Their fucking kid.

I am sick, quite literally i can feel my stomach immediately tie into knots. This isn’t some rumor, this isn’t a mistake, this is cold hard proof of one of the most disgusting things i have seen , or fuck, heard of , in my entire life.

I stumble out of the door, and my first instinct is to get out. Just to leave, my breath is coming in gasps, shuddering long gasps. What the hell can i do here? I can’t very well go to the cops, because then i would have to explain how i got on their desktop in the first place, and all it would take is one detective with too much time on his hands to start putting together the pieces and trace a lot of unauthorized transfers of funds to me. And i can’t stay, just being in this place is filling me with such a mix of rage and disgust that the only things i can think of are this guy getting arrested and drinking the biggest bottle of the cheapest liquor i can find. The longer i stay the more likely i am going to make the terminally bad decision to call the cops on this asshole. Which, really is the right thing to do, but i don’t relish getting raped for the next 2-10 years in order to save someone else the same fate. Call me a coward, but can you say you wouldn’t do the same?

I find a notepad and scribble an excuse about a family emergency. That they don’t have to pay, and that i am very sorry. Within 10 minutes i am at the nearest liquor store buying three bottles of a vodka i have never heard of that happened to be on sale. Another 30 ( and one of the bottles of vodka) and i am at my apartment, a first floor dive that i do my best to keep in a tidy condition.

I sit down and crack open a second bottle , i am still shaking, and a little voice in the back of my head keeps telling me that i should have done something, anything. But the bigger voice, the one that sees the world in cold logical tones tells me i did the smartest thing in the situation. That voice applauds me for my fortitude in not doing anything. That voice is trying to convince me i am a better person for doing what i did.

There can be something to be said for self hate. Those among us who are sure of themselves tend to be the Gacies, the Hitlers, the Albert fish of the world. Those of us who think that we suck tend to think things through in terms of effects on other people. And in this clown’s opinion that is exactly what the world needs more of.

Now if there is anything that can add gas to the fires of self hate, it is alcohol, and as i sit there on my couch i down enough of it to turn my spark of nagging empathy into an inferno of self loathing. A mirrored pyre that reflects exactly what is wrong with me, and to a lesser extent the world itself.

The world has plenty of people willing to do good, but the problem is in our modern age of freedom and equality ( we may not be perfect , but look at how far we came since the 50’s) people expect not to have to take a risk when doing good. Protesters complain about being harassed, young rebels are astounded to find out people oppose them, and people of all stripes think that they should be able to make a stand without any ill effects to them. It’s created a generation of pseudo rebels who would take matters into their own hands, if only they could be assured that nothing bad would come of it.

And i am no different. I have no right to sit here and complain about these armchair Guevaras, i am staring down the face of pure evil and not doing shit.

“ Not doing shit!” i scream tossing the empty bottle at a case of trophies, one of my few points of pride. It comes crashing off of the wall, amid the broken glass and brass clowns, the oak plaques and the purple ribbons ( best auguste 2001, most entertaining slapstick routine, 2002. All meaningless in the grand scheme of things.) , something hits me, and as is often the case with personal epiphanies, it has nothing to do with the subject at hand. I see my most prized possession , a silk tophat with a yellow hatband ( given to me by an idol of mine, though no one you would be likely to recognize.) amid the shattered glass, and the metaphor couldn’t be any more clear.
For a moment i think to sober up, that if this is a good idea, it will be just as good of an idea tomorrow. But sometimes the momentum of a situation takes you. The idea may be your own, but it is only the fuse, not the bomb. Once it’s lit, there is no stopping it.

I take out my “ clown kit” a collection of interesting cloth, buttons, sowing needles, and everything needed to repair or make a costume, and i scatter it on my bed. Taking in whooping drunken breaths i start to pick pieces of fabric, a midnight black, a dark garish yellow, and some red piping. I take out gag straps ( devices used to hold things like seltzer, expanding wands, candy, on the inside of a coat.) and finally i walk back into my livingroom and grab the hat, brushing off the broken glass and setting it in the same pile as the selected fabrics.

It’s been a while since i made a new outfit, and i am not exactly in the most able state of mind. But if being unskilled and drunk stopped any fool with a cause , i don’t think we would have won world war 2. As 2 o clock in the morning rolls around i find myself with many pinholes dripping blood, and a costume that mixes the right amount of nightmare and childhood.

The influence is heavily classic whiteface, and all and all gives the impression of an old tuxedo. In making it i followed what is essentially the “ not to do “ list of making clown garb, There is a fine line between funny and scary, and all of it actually has well researched psychological roots. I can’t help but feel like a blasphemer though. Purposely inverting a set of instructions given to me in confidence by my learned elders.

The elbows and knees are cut to fit slightly too tight. This gives an impression of skin as opposed to clothing, a guaranteed way to not get a return performance. The overcoat is cut much in the same way around the waist, it immediately makes the mind think of a spider ( due to the slight suggestion of a segmented body.). In the ultimate act of blasphemy to humor i combine the deep black in the overcoat and pants, with an undershirt of the dark, just off of bumblebee yellow. You never ,never combine yellow and black , it has been ingrained into our brains that this means danger.

I set it out on my bed, the rest of my kit being scattered around the room. But something doesn’t feel right, like something is missing. I walk to my bathroom and stare at myself for almost a half hour. I see a frazzled individual, pretty drunk, his hair a mess. Generally something pitiable, it somewhat takes the wind out of my sails, but fans the smoldering ashes of self hate. I grab a disposable razor and start to shave my head. I honestly can’t tell you why, but when i think of someone manning up and marching to what may be a horrible fate, i think of a shaved head.

At some point after this i pass out. Mania and anger can only fuel the human body for so long. But one thing i am surprised at is, when i wake up, somewhat more sober, and better off for a few hours of sleep. Not only is the idea still around, but it is nagging at me, like it is angry at any slowdown in the process. I pause long enough to grab a pack of pop tarts, and i put the finishing touches on...... what is this?

I honestly can’t say it is a costume. I have no intent of hiding my identity, as a matter of fact this entire plan is being done under the assumption that i will, fairly quickly be caught by some form of authority. I don’t even know if we have a word in English for what it is. If i had a gun to my head and were forced to explain it i would say it is half way between a symbol and a weapon. I intend it to throw off this twisted prick, and hopefully before i get carted off the the electric chair or loony bin start a legend. Something that may make other people like him think twice before indulging in their fantasies.

I put it on, as much to work up nerve as to see if there needs to be any alterations. As i tie up my boots i come to a kind of horrid realization. What am i going to use to .....do the deed. I don’t own a gun, i don’t even own a can of mace, shit, i am not even one of those guys that likes to collect swords. Buying weapons is out of the question, i have no problem getting caught, but i would like to have at least a few days of freedom before that, and buying a bunch of lethal crap would be putting up a rather giant red flag.

I find myself staring my my butchers block. Up until this point i had a real feeling of transformation, of becoming something that could do some good. Now that i am arming myself with a set of knives that periodically has trouble cutting through chicken bone i am brought back to reality. But people don’t do good by thinking about logic , or how they have a snowballs chance in hell of pulling something off. If 6 steak knives, one butcher knife , a fillet knife, and a paring knife are what i have, so be it. I put them in the gag straps and check myself out in the mirror. No visible bulges, at least i can have the element of surprise on my side.

I mentally run through my plan till late that evening. I run through my strengths and weaknesses , then i run through just my strengths because if i think about my weaknesses i might end up giving up on this.

After countless revisions i come to a final plan. If he is not alone, the wife is going to have to go. I had to run this through my mind quite a few times to warm up to the idea, but the way i see it, is that even if she isn’t supporting it, she has to know. If she hasn’t stopped it, she has helped it. If the kid is there, well i am simply going to knock him out cold. And i am sure if i asked him to trade off a days worth of headache for freedom from his sick fuck of a parent, he would happily agree. As far as the rest, well how hard can it be to kill a man? The only hard part is not getting caught, which i am only giving minimal consideration to. One cannot take a stand if there are no consequences.

I fill my pockets with a few trinkets, magnesium flash strips, a seltzer bottle half filled with bleach, and a pack of smokes. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

The last part of this...transformation? Ritual? Either seems appropriate, takes place in front of the mirror. I slather on whiteface makeup over my newly shaved head, i accentuate my nose and eyes with clown grey a very simple, effective makeup set , and for the final touch i use spirit gum to hold the tophat in place. I would like to think that i come off as scary but at the very least i can say i come off as odd, i don’t think this guy is going to cower in fear, but if it buys me an extra second as he is trying to process who or what the hell i am, that might be all the advantage i need.

I stand in front of my own door for a few minutes, that little voice, the fucking coward who thinks that the world is divided into my problems and everyone else’s is screaming, trying to stop this course of action. But if he could convince me, he would have by now. My pause is not because of being tentative, it is savoring what may be my last moments of freedom, or if i am incredibly unlucky and this guy happens to be a gun nut or something, life.

It is 11 o clock, and if there is one thing that i will say about new york, it is that if you stick to back allies, even walking around in a full clown getup doesn’t get you noticed after 9.

I find myself in front of his door quicker than i would have liked, though this time i do not hesitate, i knock loudly and stand, my body surprisingly calm, my mind a storm of fear doubt, pride and rage. After a minute or so he answers the door, the lights in the house seem to be off, except for a dull blue glow coming from the computer room.

“ Who are you?” he says, his voice thick with sleep. He rubs his eyes and something tells him that everything is not right, his eyes widen in shock and i know, beyond a doubt that this is the moment of truth. What happens next?

I freeze , that is what happens. Time seems to slow to a crawl as i think of how to start. I am no serial killer, in fact i am the type of guy who puts spiders outside instead of crushing them, so trying to start the act of taking someones life is something completely foreign to me. For a few seconds we both just stand their, neither of us having a good sense of what is happening or where this is going to go. The weird thing is it is eerily close to trying to pick up at a bar. The hard part isn’t going through once the attempt is made, but rather, starting the attempt to begin with.

It is like Like an electric shock runs through me and i react, i don’t even really know what i am doing until i feel a sharp pain in my hand and see him stumble backward into his house. Of all the things i could have done, i punched him in the face. Maybe not the best opening salvo, actually, to go back to the bar analogy, it is the equivalent of “ nice shoes, want to fuck?” , something that has almost no chance of working, but is better than nothing.

I dash into the house and slam the door shut behind me, something about this gives me confidence, Sun tzu would call it shaping the battlefield, i would call it flying by the seat of my pants. My next instinct is to try and throw him off his game, maybe make him do something stupid, not that i would know what a stupid reaction would be in a situation like this, but i am hoping that i will know it when i see it.

I may not be a fighter, and i am certainly not a killer, but what i am is a performer , in one movement i toss out a flash strip and pull out two knives, at random. The first part goes well, the room for a second is lit like daytime, and if it works out the way i think it will, he will be stumbling blindly. The second part, not so much, i manage to snag the paring knife and one one of the steak knives. Not exactly a combination that makes one confidant.

The room goes dim and i start to move toward the guy, thinking he will be stumbling backward, and hoping he is starting to feel some fear. What i see is the exact opposite. The man is staring straight ahead his posture that of a boxer , lightly swaying from side to side. He is not shaken, he is not blinded, and if i trust my instinct, he is someone used to dangerous situations.

He moves to the left , i do the same and go in for some kind of stab, but it turns out i am not the only one using trickery in this fight. It was a feint , and before i can even register this fact he shifts momentum to the right. I have no defense, or maybe i do, who knows. Last time i was in a fight was in high school, and i certainly didn’t gain any martial wisdom from it.

My entire head snaps back and i can feel my ass hit the ground before i know what is going on, i’m dazed , trying to shake my head to get some form of sense back as he just stands there ready to pick me apart the second i stand up. This is by no means going as planned.
I shift my weight backwards, raising my feet and launching myself back to a standing position. I sway drunkenly, purposefully, it seems the only thing i have going for me is the psychological advantage. Regardless of the shit this guy has seen, i have to be able to find something that will take him off his game. So far i have given up on scaring him, maybe though, i can get in his head another way.

I comically start to sway in a big circle as if i am a cartoon boxer that is seeing stars, i see an eyebrow raise, so i decide to keep it up. I up my fists like a 30’s pugilist and put on an irish accent.

“ Is that all ye got ya big son of a bitch? I’ve seen tougher swings in a playground.” I stumble again into the wall, playing the fool. Regaining my comical boxer’s stance, an imitation of his, i start to try and close the distance. He throws a jab, more to get me into position than to cause damage. This is the point i realize how outclassed i am. There is almost no chance of me avoiding anything he chooses to throw, so my only option is to do what clowns do, get hurt and make people laugh.

I barely feel the jab, but the punch that comes after it, a straight flying right handed blow i do feel, but being ready for it, i manage to keep it from shattering my nose. I stiffen my body and do, what in the industry is called a flat-fall. You’ve all seen it, someone tilts backward like a falling tree and hit’s the ground, it looks painful, but by curving your back at the right moment you can absorb the impact, and if your really good. 4 years of clown collage good, you can turn that into a swift way back to your feet.

As i fall he keeps on top of me, waiting for his chance to start wailing on my face, what he doesn’t expect is the full rotation of my body. As i hit the ground i bring my knees inward and arch my back, rolling into a ball i use the momentum to throw myself back a few feet and land in a crouch as he tries to stop himself. This is what i have been waiting for, i see his boxers pose melt and his arms go out to his sides to keep balance, i waste no time. I throw a wide haymaker with my right hand, hoping to land the steak knife in his chest or stomach, while i wasn’t quick enough for that, the knife goes easily into his forearm. I stand up and toss out a series of unaimed blows with the paring knife, he manages to slap them away from his face, but gains some nasty cuts in the process.

A fight is all momentum , well at least that is what i heard Joe Rogan say during a ufc. So my next move is to try and keep him on his toes. He tries to pull out the steak knife and i rush in, what i intend to do is knock him on his ass, what i end up doing is slamming into what feels like a brick wall. I keep my footing and in a moment of inspiration i bring out the bottle of seltzer and bleach.

Stepping backward i put on a goofy grin “ Here is an oldie but a goodie” i say aiming and pulling the trigger. While this guy may be a marine, or a boxer or something, he doesn’t seem to be the brightest penny in the jar. He pulls out the knife and says “ i hear seltzer gets out blood stains, have fun asshole. “

The stream soaks him from face to chest in one burst, and almost instantly he starts to scream as the bleach gets into all the slashes, and more importantly the deep red would from the steak knife. He stumbles backward and tries to wipe the liquid onto his shirt. I feel something strange at this point, in control. But i know its not going to last long, whatever this guy does when he is not raping his kid, it has prepared him for this kind of situation.

I am starting to get a feel for the fight, and know that i probably don’t have time to go for another knife so i improvise. I expect the seltzer bottle to shatter when it hits , that is always what happens in the movies when someone gets hit with a glass bottle full of liquid.

Just so you know, that is , not at all what happens in real life. My intent was to shatter it and use it as a shank, the reality was well......better than expected.

In place of a shattering noise and a wet pedophile, i hear a sickening sound. Like Styrofoam cracking under jello, combined with the half full dinging noise of the bottle. And this marine, or mercenary, maybe martial artist, goes down in an instant like someone pulled the plug powering him.

I bend down , thinking to see him breathing shallowly , but he is not breathing at all. And there is a rather large half moon indentation in the middle of his skull about an inch and a half deep. I may not know much about fighting, but i do know ( from a lifetime of watching rescue 911.) that no one survives a depressed skull fracture like that.

I stand up, breathing heavily, my face feeling throbbing hard enough to blur the edges of my vision. And i only have one thought.

What do i do now?