Another Chart

Just cuz' I didn't really have anything productive to do while my Internet was down for the last ten days.

Derek would be pissed out of principle. He was designing a trading card series featuring some Zoner cards, and asked me to do the artwork. Seven or more years later, this is basically it. 

Other forms aren't displayed either because they already look similar to Coopersville or because they haven't come about in the comics, and I haven't even conceptualized events in future issues that would allow them to transform.

Parareality Induced By Trauma : episode 7

Pit : Episode 7

Adrenaline is the double edged sword wielded by thrill seekers since the dawn of time. One can push themselves well past their normal limits, but this isn't a gift, it is more of a loan.
Slowly the wounds, lacerations, bumps, bruises, the whole set, start to sneak up on me. Within another 30 minutes i am walking like an octogenarian , with another 10 blocks to go between where i am and where i want to be.

I get looks, but it still kind of stuns me that the costume didn't raise an eyebrow, and even it in concert with some of the most garish wounds you'd be likely to see on a living person, is only attracting the odd stare.

My mind is already snapping to how many party stores there are between where i am and my apartment. And which one would be the least likely to refuse me service. Sounds like somewhat of an obscure fact, but when you tend to buy liquor while inebriated , you get to know who doesn't like to ask questions.

Speed-gulp is okay, but then again, there is the security cameras. ( as a rather poor, heavy drinker, i will admit sometimes my methods of procuring liquor are less than legal.) Jack's is a bit farther away, but i am also pretty sure he makes the majority of his money in some kind of illegal venture, so i can't see him calling the cops any time soon.
I manage to make a 5 minute walk in 20, and see the dimly lit , unappealingly square building, with its strangely fully functional sign. I catch a bit of my reflection in the mirrored door, and even i am taken aback.

My face has a 5 inch cut, that apparently has been bleeding out rather badly since the event, not to mention several smaller, but still productive wounds scattered about my cheeks and forehead. One of the lacerations that made my forehead its home is showing white, hopefully gravel and not bone.

Not a thought that i ever thought i would have to think of.

As i reach for the knob i notice one of my fingers is hanging at a rather odd angle. Not facing me but well on its way. A dislocation, something i am actually pretty familiar with. A misplaced hand during a backflip can easily force a finger to be evicted from its preferred position.
Before i enter i give the pinky a quick yank, normally this brings me nearly to my knees, but after the events of this night, the phrase " drop in the bucket" doesn't quite make it.
I hear the alarm system beep as i walk in , and as always, behind the counter is Albert. I've always wondered who "Jack" is, but never really cared to ask.

He is in his late 50's, overly faded tattoos covering his arms, but otherwise not too terribly intimidating of an individual. A 50's pot belly, and a gin blossom nose, take away from the scary vibe he may have had in spades in his younger days.

I walk to the fridge, twice having to grab onto a shelf to steady myself. But this is nothing new, Al, barely looks up from his newspaper, as years old bottles of mustard, mayo and pickles clang together.

Two 40's of " Grey snow" beer, while i do love my drink, i am with it enough to realize that too much alcohol could rapidly turn my situation south.

" Costume party?" Al says , i can't tell if his tone is friendly, or mocking.

" Party? Yes. Costume, no." i say cryptically hoping,to stifle the conversation instantly.

" Oh yeah, Mike, right?" he says. How he knows my name i am unsure, but i continue the conversation, hoping to build a bit of good will, if for no other reason than to deflect suspicion.

" Actually, yeah... but..." i start

" You were pretty wasted, you came in here one night, drank a 40 and a half of bottom shelf whiskey. We talked about clowns... a lot." He laughs a bit, a phlemy , hoarse chuckle. Something i would love to be able to mimic next time i get into a conflict.

" Oh...sorry about that, sometimes i don't know when to stop. Talking, or drinking." i try to throw in a laugh myself , but my ribs put a quick end to that. I grab my side and wince a bit.

" Don't worry about it, you paid, and didn't call me 'pops' 'old man' or ' dude', highlight of my week. So, what kind of party was it, you look pretty beat up. " i get a hint of suspicion from his tone.

Instantly, i change my body language, leaning easily against the counter, running a finger across the gaping wound on my forehead. My body is screaming at me to stop, but i don't want to give him any kind of reason think this is anything else other than a drunk being a drunk, and spending 5 dollars in small change on liquor.

" Got ya on that one didn't i? Actually doing some filming , friend of mine got some kind of grant , and needed a spooky clown. Well i was a clown, and as you can see , with enough laytex and fake blood, i can be pretty spooky. Downside is that i had to be there for 20 hours. You'd think a scene where i walk down a hallway would take 5 minutes, but not at all apparently." I crack one of the beers and take a long swallow, finding that even my throat must have taken a hit, swallowing is not a pleasant time.

Al laughs, and shakes his head. " Those fuckin movie types, had some try and pay me 50 bucks once to shoot in front of the store. The bastards where there every night for a fuckin week. "
" I hear you, and tomorrow , i get to do it all again." i say with my own head shake , and another long swallow of the beer. A cigarette butt and acetone flavoured beverage, with hints of rotten egg. But it gets the job done.

" well, i'll make sure to keep another 2 of those extra cold for you then. " he says, prompting me a bit to leave.

After the beer, the walk goes a little bit quicker. But as i get to the main doors of my building i find myself leaning against a wall whenever possible. I must be leaving a trail through the hallway, but that fact is rather low on my list of priorities.

" Bozo! You stumblin your ass in again?" i hear from far down the hall.
At this point, you may be getting the impression that i am a hermit, a loner, a rather tinfoil hat gent who hates society, not true. But i do tend to socialize with those much older than myself. Something about the times they grew up in, i just find makes them much more interesting than anyone near my own age.

The person the voice in question belongs to, belongs in that category. 82 years old, miserable, and a ww2 veteran. Eric Benson, curmudgeon, skinflint, hoarder, but at the very least in my opinion, great guy.

He walks down the hall, and as he passes a flickering bulb that gives nothing more than a dim orange glow, his eyes spring open.

" Christ, Mike what happened to ya?" he says , his accent is by no means overly thick, but still retains the jewish grandfather ( Should he have had children , this description may have literally described him. ) tone that always makes me laugh. Somehow harsh and caring all at the same time.

" Oh, nothing, flight of stairs , bottle of rum , not a fan." i lie.

" Ya stairs happen to have a knife taped to em?" he says , the sarcasm in his voice, almost tangible.

" Broken glass actually, Eric, no offence but i just want to get home, don't really have time to hang out tonight." i try to stand up and walk off but my vision starts to blur, and black spots appear, the more i try to ignore them , but quickly i find myself able to do nothing more than put a hand against the wall.

" Your coming with me , ya stupid bastid. " he says tugging a bit at my arm, being no more than 5 feet, normally this would have been a futile effort , but he manages to unbalance me with the first tug. I step backward and take a half hearted swing at him , screaming " Fuck off old man."
He doesn't reply, he simply reaches into his pocket, and before i realize what is going on he jabs something into my forearm, i yank it back, and slump half way down the wall.

" I'm not gonna sit here and convince you , when i am savin ya life, asshole. Don't want to come? i'm just gonna keep stickin ya with my paring knife until ya brain decides to start firing again. " If " Matter of Factly " had a face, it would be his well weathered, heavy browed visage.
I start to stumble and he gets his shoulder under mine, and with the two of us, we manage to slowly waddle to his apartment.

Stacks of boxes, piled as high as me , take up most of the place. But other than that, it is spotless, memorabilia, from 1930 or so onward, prominently displayed in oak cases, gives the place more of a museum feeling , than a shithole.

I crash to the couch and as i look to see where Eric may be, i see nothing. Too hurt to care, i simply sit there, breathing heavily, trying my damndest not to pass out.
After a few minutes he comes out carrying a green , worn steel box. He flips the top open, and brings out the largest needle, and thickest thread i have ever seen. He walks over and with a remote turns on several lights in the apartment.

He begins to poke at the gash on my forehead a bit , and takes out a glass bottle and some gauze.
" This broken bottle , that was sittin on the stairs, already broken i guess, . Was there any chance it was made of knives? Was this ' i'm a fuckin liar' brand rum? I hear they do that. " and with this quip i feel my forehead explode into pain again, and liquid pour down my face.

" If you wern't bullshittin me , i would have asked you to close your eyes there. " he snickers at the end of this sentence.

Suddenly a thought hits me.

" Your going to sow me up, with that!?" i say, my skyrocketing eyebrows causing the gash to give me another helping of pain.

" Sure am, you fuckin liar." He says as i yank my head away.

" You psychotic old prick, i am not letting you do that!" as i say this he looks exasperated, and raises a bushy eyebrow.

" You think i am gonna just start Mcguyvering your skull? What kind of an asshole do ya think i am?" he starts " Before ya answer that last part, where do you think i got this box, and the needle, thread, and alcohol?"

I really wrack my brain, but between blood loss, and alcohol gain, it doesn't click in for a minute or so.

" You were in the army?" I ask tentatively.

" And it only took 3 fucking years for you to pick up on that." he replies.

What is absurd is that i actually find myself thinking of that. In the 3 years we knew each other he had never mentioned the war, or his part in it. Really i always assumed he just avoided it somehow and was embarrassed.

" So you know what your doing, right? I mean, i am sure you were the man, back in 1892 or whatever, but when is the last time you did something like..." a sharp pain near the wound, sharp is somewhat of a misnomer, ' quick onset' would be a better one. I can feel the old dull needle poke through as, without consent from me, he begins to work.

" On someone else? 40 years ago. " he says as another bit of pain , near to the first, happens. As he works the pokes become quicker , and by the time i have ran out of interesting variations on the word "fuck", he is done.

He fumbles a bit in the green box, and pulls out what must have passed for a set of tweezers back when the ark was made. Long, dull steel things , and another question hits me.

" How old is this shit?" i say as he starts toward me.

" Pretty damn old , by your standards, i'd guess." He says, as he presses his hand against my face, bending my head backward. A huge whiff of old man smell hits me, cologne, some kind of medicated rub and cheap tobacco.

" Is it still good?" i say, the words muffled a bit by his palm.

" One thing we learned was that thee is a difference between ' expired' and 'useless'. Expired may not be so great when your paying 500 dollars to have your arm set in a nice hospital , but when its life or death, and you are fighting in the muck Bonamo, expired is great, useless is a problem. " as he finishes these words of wisdom, he pulls something out of my forehead.

" Funny, not a bit a broken glass. You must have had the most polite bottle ever, they should market that, i am sure lying drunks all over the world would break down the doors of liquor stores to get the kind of glass that doesn't make slivers. " He keeps up his assault trying to get the real story out of me.

He begins to give me the ' once over' checking for any major wounds, he seems to focuss on three on my neck and shoulders. Instead of reaching into his box of tricks he walks over to his fridge, and brings back a giant, thick steak.

This confuses the living hell out of me. For the past few months, i have noticed a lot of discarded dog food cans, and boxes of generic saltine crackers. I never asked, assuming he would be embarrassed, but i invited him over for dinner 4 nights a week because of it.

" Where did you get that?" i ask. He laughs.

" What do ya mean? How did i afford steak when i have only had money for crackers and dog chow? Friggen kids, think ya the only ones who know how to run a con or two. I just knew if i seemed like i was starvin' i wouldn't have to make my own dinners for a while, ya stupid asshole." He laughs again, and i join him.

" Your a resourceful old bugger arn't you?" i say shaking my head. He had money for steak, i was legitimately near dog chow levels in regards to funds, i am a bit angry, but more impressed than anything.

" This steak though, i'm not gonna eat. " he says as he takes some books and leans the steak, against it. " This steak is going to show you something. " he continues cryptically.

" You working up your own clown act Eric?" i ask as he makes sure the steak is sitting straight up.

"No, just showing you one i knew when i was your age. "
He pulls out another box, and takes a knife from it, old, but actually sharp looking. A military style, though what i know about knives could easily fit in a dixie cup.

" Someone like you is gonna use a knife like this. " he says, and those old arthritic hands whip back and forth , drawing the knife along the meat a few times. Nothing action movie like, but at age 82 , impressive none the less. He uses the tip to move the 'wounds ' a bit " Shallow, no angle, and all scattered in one area, like a moron. "

He turns from me , and as he does takes a swipe at the steak. This time it is just one, and the steak itself slides to the ground in two pieces, still in the package.

" Now those, are the kind of wounds you have. Angled to make healing harder if ya miss, few, so the guy didn't waste energy and leave you time to take the knife, and if you were a hundreth of a second slower, they would have killed ya. Whoever you got into a fight with, they knew what they were doin'. And i am not talking about some schmuck in the reserves, or some drunk grunt. You've pissed someone off, and if is the kind of people i fuckin know it is, your in over ya head."
My response is silence, my story is insane, hell one could say my story itself is the very definition of insanity. I've killed, i have been under extreme stress, and i have an elaborate web of what very well may be fantasy to explain it all. Maybe he is picking up on it, and just trying to see how far down the rabbit hole i went.

" I'm fine Benson, no web of intrigue , just a fight i didn't want to admit getting my ass kicked during. " I say, a deflection mixed with a half truth.

" I have no doubt ya got the taffy beat out a ya, " he says ( once i asked what was with the plethora of taffy references, he then spent an afternoon showing me clips from an old show circa about 1950 , in which a clown, and what appeared to be a federal agent hocked taffy to children.) " but i've seen these kind of wounds before. I've patched these kind of wounds before, i've never been the best guy with a gun, or my fists, but even people like the guy who showed you ,need someone to patch them up. And i spent a few decades doin it, the kind of patching up that doesn't have records kept of it, if ya are starting to get it." He looks at me, and i have never seen this kind of expression on his face before. Not solem, but , serious.

I spill my guts, from the computer that started it all, to the events right before i got to where i am now.

He didn't laugh, he didn't call bullshit on anything, just sat down, smoked a half dozen cigarettes and looked progressively more worried.

" We were talking about something like this back in the 60's. We had some good guys, some guys that seemed to be better than anyone could expect. Not because they were trained better, even though they were, but just because they were just, a bit more. Don't know how else to say it. No supermen, no lazers, or telekefuckits, no flyin, just certain guys who ran faster, jumped higher, hit harder, and could take a beatin that would stun a rhino. Funny thing is, we always had trouble gettin these guys to work together. Luckily, we never had to much. They had things..." he shudders a bit. " taken care of. Problem was , we realized, if we was getting these guys just walkin in the door, there must be others out there. And that was something that we started to think wouldn't be a good thing. Like that Freeguy was saying. But i thought the idea was scrapped. Reason was, people didn't want a hero. No reason to worry, stories about one guy killing an enemy platoon in the war made people proud, stories about the same thing happening to some mobsters , made people sweat. So with a little hushin in the newspapers, and a little ...prodding the public opinion against folks takin things into their own hands, we didn't need to do anything else." he shakes his head a bit, trying to absorb the information.

" So, anything i should know?" i say, trying to get some kind of advice in the situation.

" You ain't gonna win , and you probably aint gonna live through the first asshead with a gun you try to stop. " he says, not as an insult, but calmly, making sure that i understand that this is no laughing matter.

" I know, but i just don't think i can stop. I don't know what it is. I don't like killing anyone, but i can't get over the fact that , yes i could do something to help someone in the world, and there is a group of people out there who's job it is to stop me. I don't mind the fact that i am going to die, or get caught, but i'd like to put off both as long as possible. " saying it out loud is wierd. I don't feel heroic, i feel like someone talking about a heroin addiction. " can you help? I mean you could show me how to fight, right? "

He laughs " Me? I was gonna fail boot camp, but they saw i was a doctor, or almost one, long story. That with the knife? Surgery , if that steak was movin around i wouldn't have put a mark on it. " It is his turn for silence, " You aint gonna give this up though are ya? “ he sighs a bit and continues “ Ya know what though? I’m 82, I don’t sleep, I barely shit, and I’m starting to lose hearing in one ear. I wanna be useful again, “ his tone is completely different than usual. Gone is the sarcastic life hardened old man, replaced with a melancholy old gent reviewing the last couple of decades of his life. “ You wanna get beat to death to stop some purses being snatched? Good on you, stupid, but something that gets my respect. You need to be patched up, I’ll do it. And if that gets me shot , fuck it, I’ve dodged enough bullets in my life, that I am ahead of the game. “

And that stark statement takes me back for a moment, and brings up a question. “ Someone left a note, whats stopping them from just walking into my place and shooting me while I sleep?”

He laughs , his expression turning to more of that old man I know , “ That was me , ya moron ya. I got my ways , and I had a feeling you was doing something like this, but I didn’t think it was this… involved. Just wanted to scare ya into being a bit more safe. Whole lotta good that did… And why don’t they just come in and shoot you? The law ya daffy prick. Maybe not the same law on the books you could read, but law regardless. Doing that just, aint what they do. “

Confusing does not even describe this situation, when I started all I wanted to do was go out in a blaze of glory, when that went too well , all I wanted to do was do some good, now I am hip deep in a cross between a Tom Clancy novel and a comic book.

Something catches my eye, in a case, it just seems to call out to me. I am not too much of a war buff, my historical trivia is mostly entertainment related, but the item in the case is pretty easy to identify.

“ Is that what I think it is?” I say pointing to the case. Inside is a burned, torn headband, emblazoned with the rising sun, as the ten gallon hat is to cowboys, this is to the kamikaze. And what am I , if not a kamikaze that seems to keep failing at the last part of a suicide mission.

“ I’m guessin so, why?” Eric says intrigued.

“ I want it, if I am going to do this shit, I kinda want to do it right. The only thing I got goin for me is the fact that I am odd, so I guess I have to work with that. “ I say as he walks over to the case, I hear a squeek of a hinge that hasn’t been opened in decades and he gingerly gives me the headband. I remove the tophat, the spirit gum hurting my scalp a bit, but in relation to everything else that has happened today, I barely notice.

I replace the hatband with the aged, headband and hold it out at arms length. A damaged , hat , a damaged hatband, and a symbol that states in no uncertain terms that if I am going down, I will be taking someone with me.

“ Ya know, maybe I have something else that can help ya out. “ Eric wanders off into another room and comes back with three books. “ Ya read german?” he says tossing them down on a table.

“ Why in the hell would I read german?” I ask

Suddenly his entire body posture changes, rigid, cold, and he spouts off a series of words that I can only assume, from the odd bits I have heard from films, is german. The accent, sounds perfect, or at least very close to what I have heard in said films.

“ Knowing krautspeak saved my ass more than anything uncle Sam taught me, maybe you’ll be able to say the same someday. “ He picks up the book, and flips to a random page a quarter or so in, the words are undecipherable to me , but the pictures of men engaged in hand to hand combat, or using weapons, seem to speak pretty clearly.

“ If there is anything the krauts were good at , it was hurtin people, these books are gonna be better than anything some slant eye is going to teach ya for 200 dollars a week. Once you know how to read em that is. “

Is Coopersville a Mary Sue? Somehow Arguable!

Earlier, I read up on what exactly defines a character as a "Mary Sue". Originally, it was a term coined within Star Trek fan fiction for write-in characters which were really just self-inserted fantasy characters that the author used to project him or herself within the series. Over time, the term has changed, as more series began to portray main characters with virtually no flaws and little need to develop.

The Z-Comics mimic the characters of Dragonball Z, which is well known for its Mary Sue-type heroes that just wouldn't die, or ever really have a shortage of power. In the Z-Comics, any solution to Coopersville's problems is usually a new transformation. In every issue to date, and the ones I have planned, he's pretty much incapable of losing a fight. But let's look at the actual traits of a Mary Sue, and see how many actually add up.

* The Sue is instantly liked by all the other characters - MISS

Coopersville is widely disliked and hated by most of the characters in the comics. He's the immature tyrant of a conquered town that he renamed after himself. He's often criticized by the townspeople, and attempts are frequently made on his life. Strangers, and even other members of THE Z0NE, mock him, question his power, and are quick to make note of his moments of stupidity. If he's ever given respect by a neutral party, it's because they're exploiting him for his strength. Even the love interest, Karen, doesn't warm up to him until about issue #9 (ten issues have been completed so far).

* Multiple characters fall in love with the Sue for little reason - MISS

I can't even think of any tertiary characters that express their love for Coopersville. Sometimes fanfare is given for his achievements. Otherwise everyone's quite bitter towards him, or at most lukewarm, until Karen eventually warms up to him.

* The Sue is unrealistically selfless, courageous, and/or intelligent - MISS

Coopersville is a teenager who clearly displays the mentality of a teenager. He's generally pretty ignorant, inconsiderate, and misogynist. Any acts that he performs which could maybe be mistaken for selflessness or courageousness are often acts of arrogance in response to someone who he feels has wronged or disrespected him in some way. If he helps someone, ulterior motives are almost always in play.


* The Sue learns difficult things unrealistically fast - HIT

This is a very blatant hit. Yodariquo, another member of THE Z0NE, is depicted as being obsessed with training and self-improvement. Coopersville, on the other hand, seems to gain all of his power inherently (though he does get in noticeably more battles than the other Zoners, which could be a possible explanation). When he is incapable of defeating a new enemy, he is able to transform to a new level seemingly only because of his will to never lose. In one issue, most of his power is taken away from him. He remedies this by training with some Jedi so that he can learn to wield light weapons and The Force as a means of taking his powers back from the foe who stole them. The duration of his training is however long is takes him to read a "Force Wielding For Dummies" guide.

* The Sue has no character flaws, or has very insignificant flaws - HIT

Coopersville has a few personality flaws, but physically he has little faults. From time to time he might make a goof as a form of comedy relief, but when the chips are down, he's an unstoppable force.

*The Sue is living the author's fantasies - HIT?

I don't feel this is a hard hit because it's a rather general trait. Would I want to be the mutant god-king of a town on another planet inhabited by a different species, and is constantly tested by just about everyone? Nope. Would I like to wield at least some of the power he represents? Sure, but so would everybody.

If it only takes one of those traits for a character to be labelled as a Mary Sue, than Coopersville definitely fits the bill. However, if the misses balance the character, Coopersville is normal, which surprises even me, as I intentionally designed him to be invulnerable.

(and, yes, I did spent three hours drawing and colouring that diagram specifically for this blog)

Before I Get Too Carried Away...

I'm just going to get it out of my system before this takes off into some kind of monster like the comics I'm parodying. Bitstrips already has seven million users; they don't need an extra one who can actually draw. If I make any more, they'll probably end up on P-X.

http://stopbullying.bitstrips.com/challenge/

Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and make a certain blog the first blog to act as the perfect introduction to LBC. Give me kudos!

And just for gloating purposes....

Parareality Induced By Trauma : episode 6

I hit the ground with a thud, not knowing how exactly I got there, or as I start to think about it, who I am.

The room is dank, and rather dungeon esque, a small window on the wall to my right, lets in a dim, spotty light, allowing me a half decent view of where I am. The floor is hard packed dirt, the walls rough stone, handmade by the looks of it. There is a rectangular opening about 9 feet up the wall, and a small steel door, no more than 3 feet high, beside what I originally think is a bag of flour, or something more sinister.

As my eyes adjust I realize it is a person, sleeping, though god knows my less than graceful entrance should have woken him up. An older guy, late 50s or so, stocky, dressed in an off the rack, but still decent ( besides the ambiguous gore ) suit. He isn’t dead, as he is snoring loudly, but that hardly gives me comfort.

I try desperately to get my mental bearings, but they don’t come as easy as the physical ones. And looking around at where I am , maybe this is a good thing. I mean who gets thrown in a dungeon?

Every time I try to think beyond the here and now, I get a weird lightheaded feeling, threatening to make me black out. And on top of everything, I don’t think a black out would be beneficial.

I cough a few times, trying to wake up the other occupant. But no such luck, he simply turns over, as if he is sleeping in his own bed as opposed to a creepy basement.

Eventually I give up trying to be polite and just kick him. He wakes up with a sleepy yet angry noise, and looks at me with an hassled look.

“ So your finally here ?” he says, a slight hint of an accent I can’t really place, in his voice.

“ I guess so, any chance of you telling me where here is?” I say , our conversation has a touch of a confrontational tone.

“ Nope, not in the slightest actually. “ he says pulling himself into a more upright sitting position. I notice one eye is closed, the dim light makes figuring out the reason fairly hard, so I decide to continue to try and get some information.

“ Is it a possibility I at least know who you are?” I say, put off balance by damn near everything in my current situation.

“ That is something I can answer , my friend. “ he says, and surprisingly seems to perk up a bit. He pulls out a cigarette ( not something that I enjoy in the confined space, but who am I to begrudge someone a pleasure in this situation?).

“ I’m an asshole. A huge asshole, an asshole of gigantic proportions. Sadly, I only recently realized this, which I guess is part of the reason I am here. “ He starts, he sounds genuinely regretful, of whatever actions he had taken to brand him an asshole.

“ But that is a bit vague isn’t it? Well I’m 52, I have four kids, wife got killed a few years ago. Born in the states, and moved here for business reasons. “ he continues , and gives a pause. I step in before he can take control of the conversation.

“ I am guessing this business, it isn’t exactly on the legal side of things?” I say, he looks a tad deflated.

The accent gets turned up a notch, Jersey, or New York I guess.

“ Yeah, bingo. But its not what you think, no one has their arm around me, I am not some kingpin, just a guy who realized that it is a lot easier to work in a black hat than a white one. I’m no saint, people don’t pay, for what I provide, they get harmed. But I’ve never had someone tossed in the river, if that’s what your thinking. Well, yet anyway.” His tone goes a bit unhappy toward the end.
“ Is that a threat?” I say, legitimately worried.

“ Kill you?” he laughs, “ yeah , not something I am going to be doing any time soon. Wouldn’t be too healthy for me. “

“ What do you mean?” I say, another mystery, added to the pile.

“ Too long to explain, and too painful, literally. “ he says, looking at the ground. “ Anything else you wanted to know?”

This whole situation seems weird, beyond the obvious that is. It feels a lot less like being tortured or kidnapped, than a job interview , or sales pitch.

“ I don’t know, never really had much experience with people like yourself. Or situations like this. “ the conversation seems to constantly on the verge of stopping, like being stuck playing with a cousin one hated as a kid.

“ A little advice? Don’t try to compare this to anything else you’ve ever done. “ he exhales a thick cloud of smoke, the smell is strong, probably a cheaper brand. Strange considering the guy appears to be well dressed, or rather, as well dressed as someone could be given the circumstances.

“ So you’ve done this before? Is this some kind of experiment, something I signed up for?” I say hopeful to have an answer, even one, a small one, in this situation.

“ No, I am like , what do they call them, props, in a movie. You are more like the star. “ he chooses his words carefully, obviously trying to not give away too much too quickly.

He take sin a big breath, the same kind one does when pulling out a splinter , crushes the cigarette, and reaches into another pocket. |He pulls out a somewhat dirty envelope, nothing written on the front, and hands it to me.

“ This is yours, open it and read it. “ he says, adding , almost as if he just thought of it, “ After we eat.”

“ Eat?” I say confused and a bit scared, what exactly am I going to have to eat? He goes to a corner of the room, and brings out two relatively clean Styrofoam containers. When we crack them open, no pig eyes, human liver, or shit. Just two pretty good looking burgers.

“ Don’t worry, they’re fine. I’ve been eating them for… fuck, a bit , lets say. “ he seems a tad nervous as he almost spills some beans he shouldn’t.

We eat, we talk.

I find out that his business of choice is grey market merchandise , everything from copied dvd’s to the odd handgun. His kids are in school, none seem to be interested in the business he is in, and beyond that he hasn’t told them the nitty gritty of what he does. He hates his wife, but she has stomach cancer, so he won’t leave. He has never killed a man, but has thrown the odd punch to keep his business running.

He was born in new york, jewish by decent, agnostic by experience. He knew a few people within mob circles, but never really socialized with them, avoided them actually. And all said and done, a pretty funny guy, dealing with the situation much better than I was.

As we finish the burgers, I open the envelope, he was looking for another cigarette at the time, what I saw on the paper shocked me. Written in a neat, but slashing, angry scrawl:

“ He holds the lives of three men in his hands. There are two exits in this room, the doorway above you, and one below you. Getting to the top will require removing the man’s femur, you’ll find a set of bolt cutters, modified , under a stone in the east corner of the room. He will obviously, not survive the process. You can go through the lower door, but if so, he will be let free, and inevitably these three people will die. “

I am shocked, and just as he lights up a second cigarette I ask, bluntly.

“ Is this true?” I say, half yelling.

“ About the three people? Yeah. Trust me, if your reading it there, your reading the gospel. “ he sounds unconcerned.

“ What did they do?” I ask, my tone, half mad half anxious.

“ Doesn’t matter, “ he laughs , “ too bad I didn’t realize that before hand. But the fact is that I am going to kill them, by my own choice, if you let me go.”

“ If?” I say shocked , “ Why wouldn’t I?”

It is his turn to look confused.

“ Three people on the line maybe? “ he says asking it legitimately as a question, not simply making the statement.

“ Okay, but let’s be honest here, those are three people that might deserve it. And to be selfish about it, you have to kill them, not me. “ I say, matter of factly.

“ The easy way isn’t always going to be the best way around here, cliché, I know, but true none the less. “ he says, and it honestly seems like he is trying to argue me out of letting him live.

“ You suicidal?” I ask pointedly.

“ fuck no, but I know that things are bigger than me. If I was a believer I would talk about a yamekule right about how. “ he says, his tone is unwavering.

Suddenly something hits me, a slow, peristaltic pain happens in my head. Like something physical is moving around, unfortunately the only analogy I can make , in this serious situation is that it felt that my brain was taking a shit, one full of pointed metal.

“ Maybe there is another way…” I say , getting to my feet , tears coming out of my eyes, through no effort of my own.

I walk over to the east corner , noticing , as I wipe the tears from my face, that they aren’t your standard tears, but rather blood. I move the fake stone and see the large set of bolt cutters. I sigh a bit as I realize that they won’t be useful at all for the first part of my task.

“ You good with pain?” I say, putting my face an inch or so from the rough dirt and stone wall, looking for something, that even I don’t quite understand.

“ I’d rather you just smash my skull in with those before doing anything , if you didn’t mind. “ He says, with a chuckle.

“ But if the choice was pain, or death, which are you picking?” I say, colder than I expect.

“ I’d like to walk out of here, if that’s what your asking… what do you have in mind?” his voice getting a bit apprehensive.
I don’t tell him outright, because really, I don’t know. But rather I start to, only half consciously relate a story.

“ Ever hear about how sharp an obsidian scalpel is?” I start, “ hundreds of times sharper than the surgical scalpels we use. Actually they are starting to use obsidian for normal medical use. But that is besides the point. Well the skill involved in doing it is called knapping. “ as I rant I start to rub my finger along the sides of a thick stone. A lot of gravel In the dirt, unpleasant, for what I have in mind, but not insurmountable.

“ Well, that makes my day.” my companion states, sounding a tad unimpressed.

“ Now, obsidian isn’t the only thing you can do this with only the best, many different minerals , if properly knapped, can make quite the edge. Certain types of shale for example, like this bad boy right here.” I start to press a bit harder, dislodging a bit of dirt “ All you really need, is something harder than the rock, and a bit of technique , the technique being the most important part. If you have some idiot with a hammer trying to knap, your going to end up with gravel. Useful stuff, but not for these kinds of things. “

Its going to take a long time , I realize, nothing at all besides bare hands to remove the makeshift grout. And more than likely I am going to loose some skin in the process. But if the choice is between that, and watching this guy die with the vast majority of his leg in tatters, I’ll take gaining some nasty scars.

“ As you can probably guess, I can knap. And I have an idea, instead of ripping out your femur , I’m going to take some other bones, maybe a bit more important, but in the same sense, ones you can actually survive their removal. “ My voice is cold, not serial killer cold, but…doctor cold. And I wonder where it comes from. This gains me nothing but the threat of a blinding headache.

“ fingers?” he says tentatively.

“ Actually, yeah, how’d you know?” I say genuinely curious.

“ it’s a good thing to use if you don’t want to kill someone.” its his turn for a steel timbre to creep in to his voice.

I turn toward him, “ How can you be so okay with that shit?” I say, feeling a bit of blood, running down my hand already.

“ I’d ask you what you do for a living, but your not going to know. So let me put it this way. If you own a welding shop, chances are, your going to have some people have welding accidents. Hell, kid, if you own a restaurant your probably going to see people get some nasty burns, cuts, and shit. There is no business you can be in , where your not going to hurt someone. The only difference in mine is that the people that have these ‘accidents’ happen, could have easily avoided it, by not trying to rip me off. I ain’t a shylock, kid, I don’t run numbers, I don’t sell drugs. I sell shit, the same kind of shit you buy every day, and sometimes folks want credit. And just like sears, I’ll give it to them if I think they are worth the risk. “ his tone is a bit defensive, but nothing in it would indicate that he is just rationalizing.

“ Yeah , with the exception of the fact that sears doesn’t send lenny the moyle in to remove pieces of you if you don’t pay up. “ I am barely paying attention, but still half offended, half intrigued at his answers.

“ Maybe they should , it’d lower prices to the rest of the folks that don’t want to rip anyone off.” I find myself unable to argue his points, maybe it is how well they were made, maybe it was the fact that I am more concerned with saving his life. Who knows, but a moral debate with someone who can be best described as half of a mobster is the last thing that I need at the moment.

I realize that this is going to take a long time, longer than a few minutes, but in the same sense, how long, and how much unpleasantness is too much to save a life?

Nega-View!

Messing around with my camera phone I decided to take some pictures in Negative Effect.. and this is what I got.

Parareality Induced By Trauma : Episode 5

We came to an agreement, she would claim self defence, and my name would never be mentioned.

With the selection of bruises I had unfortunately left, I didn’t think it would be a very hard sell.

The walk home was, odd to say the least, I took off the getup, costume, weapon, whatever you want to call it, and walked home in an ill fitting set of jeans and a sweatshirt.

“ Guess I am a giants fan now. “ I say to myself, realizing that, on top of it all, talking to myself is not really a good sign.

It was a typical new york night, an odd mix of silence and racket, folks yelling, folks laughing, and none of them had the slightest clue of the absurd situation that had just transpired.

I got away with it, I find myself thinking, again and again. Somehow, I had turned what was supposed to be a kamikaze run, into the perfect crime. I find myself wondering if this means something, probably not. For all the criminals that get caught before they can draw a knife to mug someone, I guess there has to be someone that is the flip side of that coin.

I walk down the stairs to my door, and something catches my eye, a piece of paper tacked to the door. My first thought is that it is another eviction notice, but I remember this is one of the few months I am all squared up on the rent. My eyes take a second to focus, and on the paper is written one word, in a thick, slashing scrawl.

Stop.

“ Weird” I mutter, taking the paper off of the door, and crumpling it. Probably just some kid , drunk, homeless gent, all are in abundance around here.

First stop is a rummage through the cupboards, and as I thought , between 2 dozen bottles I manage to get a waterglass full of liquor and backwash. I slam it down and sit , right there on the peeling linoleum.

I waited for it to come, that sinking feeling, that crushing of my soul that is supposed to come with having to kill a man. You hear it all the time from war vets, gang members, and anyone else who has had to shrug off the conventions of society and kill.

Hours go by, and nothing. As a matter of fact , the longer I sit, the more I realise that there is nothing wrong with what I did. With maybe the exception of hurting the wife ( to this day, I still refer to them as the husband and wife.) .

Psychosis maybe? I don’t really think so, maybe a case could be made for during the fight itself, but now, I am calm, not eerie dead eyed calm, but normal, boring night calm.

Sleep came, and went, the next few days , I spent nursing the many bruises and cuts I had sustained, not to mention hand washing the outfit. This was my first real epiphany.

Why was I washing it? This was supposed to be a one time thing, even moreso now that being caught red handed wasn’t part of the plan. I should have thrown it out, burned it, hell shredded it and covered it in bleach first. But there I was carefully washing the blood from the clothing, and making mental notes as to where it needed repair.

Day 5 bought another surprise, a phone call.

“ Hello, Giggles the clown, birthday parties , bar-mitzvahs and more, how can I help you. “ I say, my standard opening.

“ I need to pay you.” The voice on the other end says.

“ O…k…, while I am happy to hear that can I ask who is calling. “ I say, not putting 2 and 2 together that quickly at 10 am.

“ You did a, birthday party for me a few days ago, and helped me, with the computer…” It clicks.

My voice is nervous all of the sudden, why is she calling me? Tempting fate when a murder charge is on the line is not the smartest thing on earth.

“ Oh, no problem, I left you a note on the counter, stating that payment wasn’t needed. Don’t worry about it, I wasn’t at the top of my game that day. “ I say, double speed, hoping to end this conversation, and maybe change my number.

“ No, I don’t feel right. I need to pay you. I’ve already taken out the money.” Her tone says more than her words. And I know, that this conversation isn’t going to go where I want it to.

“ Well I am a little busy today, maybe I can stop by next week sometime…” I say, trying to sound as if she is bothering me.

“ Today, in 2 hours, I need to get this done. “ is the last thing I hear as the line goes dead.

I start to get that same feeling I did before the , lets call it , “the event”. Maybe the cops grilled her and she broke, maybe someone saw me, maybe this is just a sting to get me.

But in for a penny , in for a pound, as the cliché goes. And really if the cops wanted to find me, my number would be enough. I have no idea how to run from the cops, hide my identity, get an alias, or any of those things that are second nature to criminals. Here or there, if they want to catch me, they are going to.

2 hours later and I find myself getting an odd sense of déjà vu, I knock on the door, this time in street clothes, a pair of faded jeans and a black dress shirt, with a set of sunglasses to cover up the lingering black eyes.

The wife comes to the door, and motions for me to walk inside. As soon as the door shuts she says , “ So it was you.”.

I genuinely laugh, no secrets between us now, “ Of course it was me, did you think it was a coincidence that it was a six foot clown?”

“ I wanted to be sure. “ She says, while I have been dealing rather well , she seems distraught. “ Here, it’s no where near what you deserve but it is what I can spare. “ For a moment , the word ‘ deserve’ sets me on edge, and I tense as she reaches into a purse on , a new table, by the door. But it is no gun, just a rather thick envelope , I open it, and find 4 grand inside. More money than I see in half a year.

And I take it. While doing good for good’s sake is great from a fictional standpoint, it makes the hero seem more, heroic, in the real world, people need to eat, and more importantly for me , at the moment, drink.

There is a moment of silence, awkward, and I feel the need to break it.

“ So how did things… turn out?” I ask, shifting from one foot to the next a bit.

“ … fine, I suppose. Clear cut case of self defence is what they called it, I have a few more interviews, but everything looks like it is going to be okay.” She is trying to hold back tears, I don’t really know what to say, when I need to cheer folks up, I usually bust out a whoopee cushion, or juggle. And I have a feeling this situation calls for a bit more than that.

“ He was a monster” I say simply, when I see her reaction, I seriously think maybe the whoopee cushion would have been a better idea.

“ I fucking know that!” she screams, “ It isn’t him I am upset about, it isn’t me either, I have no guilt for what I did , fucking none. “

I back off a step.

“ Then , what?” I ask , somewhere between genuinely curious and comforting.

“ Try explaining to a kid, all of this shit. Then try explaining to him that his father, the monster, is dead. That prick had him so mixed up.” she starts crying , heavily, and between choked sobs explains more to me. “ He had him believing this was normal, just what fathers and sons do. And it was all under my fucking nose. He blames me!” she screams, staring at me, almost as if to dare me to contradict her.

“ You told him?” I say , confused. Now it was her turn to be exasperated.

“ Of course not, I told him he fell down the stairs, but its like… he knows. “ My discomfort is at an all time high. What I really want to say is ‘ He is dead, your kid is no longer being raped, count your fucking blessings.’, but I can’t.

“ Listen, this is a fucked up situation, for all of us. But like every fucked up situation from cheating to world war 2, its going to pass. Your better off without him, and for a 40 something year old broad, your not that old looking, or wrinkled, I am sure you can find another old guy. “ I grin, and the shock of the joke breaks her out of the sobbing.

“ I’m 42 you asshole.” she says with a bit of a smile.

“ And I’m 27, your old enough to be my mom.” Humour has always been my first recourse, and this situation is no different.

“ If I was 15 when I had you!” she is wiping tears away, makeup smearing.

“ I don’t judge.” I say condescendingly. And out of no where I add, “ Here is my card, if you need help, like this, or you know anyone else who does, just give me a call and say your cancelling the Bar-mitzvah. Make sure it isn’t from a blocked number. “

My words shock me as much as they do her.

“ You do this kind of thing, a lot?” she asks, curious.

“ Between you and me, I almost didn’t even do it this time. I don’t know what the hell I have got myself into, or for that matter, even what I am doing. But it’s a damn sight better than getting puked on, and called a faggot under the breath of guys like your husband. And, it seems to pay better too. “ I say, feeling comfortable, for the first time in the conversation.

“ You know, in comics, the hero never takes a reward. “ she says throwing a verbal jab my way.

“ In comics the hero has a good paying day job. “ I respond, “ That 40 you were going to give me for the party doesn’t really cover bullet proof vests and Shark repellent. “

We share a laugh , and there is another moment of silence, I use that opportunity to take my leave.

I am home for no more than 10 hours, when I get another call.

“ Giggles the clown….” I am interrupted almost immediately, the voice’s sex is ambiguous, but it sounds a bit shaken.

“ The um… Bris is on, or …off, I think. “ the voice says, though mangled, I understand what it is getting at.

“ Okay sir, well I will have to collect the cancellation fee, where would be a good place to meet?” I say, keeping the conversation non sketchy sounding much better than the person on the other end.

“ How about Tim’s dinner, on 42nd?” it says shakily.

“ I’ll be there in an hour. “ I say and hang up the phone.

So this is it, the more I think about it, the more I think this is my first real…job. “The Event” was more a prologue , a stumblefuck of moral, physical, and mental proportions that lead to this.

I don’t go in costume, but I do take the time to put on a beard, some contacts, and a very well done, if bright red wig. ( looked too real, never found a use for it before.)

And in the mentioned hour , I am there, sitting in a dirty dinner, most of the patrons seem to be nursing coffee , and dressed in faded torn clothing, and the more I breathe , the more I realize that the smell of onions and shit, is probably coming just as much from the customers, as the food.

For a moment I reflect on how terribly un funny actual hobos are, nothing like the clean, but ragged costumes I have donned.

I sit, and as it seems to be the order of the day, order a coffee and drink it ever so slowly.

30 minutes late he arrives, his clothes are old, and he looks worn out, but not to the extent of the homeless surrounding me. He has a dark black beard, short and well kept, long hair but clean. And a nervous demeanour.

He passes me a card.

Theodore Johanson, Pastor, west side united.

“ I’ve been waiting for 30 minutes.” I say trying to sound like I have done this all before.

“ I’m…sorry, I just… wanted to be sure, this wasn’t some kind of…”

“ Police sting?” I say, a bit of a smile creeping into my face.

“ Exactly.” He says looking down, to the side, anywhere but my eyes.

“ Well maybe it is, seeing as if it is, your already arrested, why not explain the problem?” I say, keeping him on edge.

“ We have problems , large problems. A group of men, who choose to… harass some of the members of our church. “ He says, slowly.

My boner is killed, harass? I am not a security guard, I may not know what I am, at the moment, but stopping some people yelling fuck off, is not what I am here to do.

“ Not interested, I suggest a baseball bat and learning some foul language.” I get up , and in that way pastors have perfected, he puts a hand on my arm, stopping my progress as he tosses down an article, faded and yellow from the paper. 2 years old , it talks of 3 homeless men being tied and burned “ Like logs”.
“ Okay, you could have told me you were the world understatement champion.” I say sitting back down.

“ This doesn’t happen all the time, mind you. But it , waxes and wanes , you could say. I just don’t want it happening again, I don’t want them…” I stop him.

“ Okay, I get it. No Falling Down action. “ He looks confused , and I start to wonder if I am the only person who has seen the film.

“ They congregate outside of an alley in front of the church, several of my members have issues, with alcohol, and as we do not let them drink, they chose to… imbibe close by. Leading to , many unfortunate incidents. “ Its my turn to tap him on the hand.

“ Thanks for lobbing me a softball here , I’ll have it taken care of. “ And this time I do leave.

I sleep that night, actually I sleep the next day as well, getting up around 7pm. By now, most of the wounds attained have faded to dim aches. I put on the costume, and as I do, I find myself doing it in the same order, with the same movements that I did before. I realize this is the start of a ritual.

I briefly think of getting…something better than a set of steak knives, and a cut down curtain rod ( obviously, a new addition to the ‘ arsenal ‘ ) , but decide against it. Too much attention, and to be frank, if I could do the job with this equipment, I can certainly scare a few thugs with the same.

I walk to the address on the card, bad area of town, graffiti covering any available surface, garbage blowing about, and the only half functioning sign is the neon one in front of the church, reading “ ned urch” , either this is the united church, or some guy named Ned Urch really wants people to know he lives there.

The alley is foreboding, from the sidewalk, one can barely see the end of it, and out of a dozen or so lights on the side of the buildings only the one at the far end is functioning. I barely make out the forms of about 5 men, too far to tell any defining characteristics, I start to walk down the alley. My body language starting to become that blasphemy of everything I have been taught. A jerking, sweeping walk, hands held low but far out, everything that sets off that primal fear instinct in the human brain.

I am starting to work up a good rage, to feel confidant in what I am doing.

Then I nearly shit my pants.

Suddenly out of seemingly no where, someone is standing in front of me. Not the tallest person on earth, around 5”7 or so, I would guess 150 or so pounds. But dressed at least as strangely as I am.

Over his face is a loose knit kind of cloth, protruding from this is a set of goggles, glowing slightly green. At first I assumed the waist length leather jacket he wore was simply gray, upon further inspection it was an epically faded american flag pattern. His shirt and pants were of a similar fabric, though the pants looking a bit more tightly knit, and with plenty of loops, buckles, and hooks carrying an assortment of items I couldn’t recognize.

“ Stop, now.” He says simply, blocking my way.

I am silent, this is a total curve ball. Who is this guy? One of the gang members? Maybe a friend of the husband? Was this all just a big set up?

“ Go home, burn that shit, and feel lucky you got away with murder, this is your last warning. “ He says, not quite monotone, but sounding very unconcerned.

I take an inhale from the device, getting lightheaded for a moment as The Heavy hits my lungs.

“ Or I could just keep walking, shove your tiny ass out of the way, and do some good here.” I say taking a few steps forward.

He chuckles a bit, not a forced nervous laugh, but a genuine chortle brought about by him believing that my statement was obviously absurd. Needless to say my confidence takes a blow.

“ You could do that, not the smartest idea , but well within your rights. “ he says, not moving at all.

“ Why not just shoot me in the back or something? Is there something important about this speech?” I say, the heavy starting to fade, as my voice starts going back to its normal tone.

“ We aren’t like you. People like you think you can just bypass the entire legal system every time something happens that turns your stomach. I don’t get off on killing , clown, I just have a job to do, and that job is to keep people like yourself, from starting a fire. You think you’re the first asshole to put on a costume and try to fix the world?” He laughs, again genuine, like he has been doing this for a while, “ Not by a long shot , and ever since the first idiot to try this, Uncle Sam has had guys like me here to make sure that you insane fucks don’t turn this country into anarchy. What do you think is going to happen when you actually start doing enough of this shit to get noticed? Some other idiot, is going to put on a stupid costume, but maybe this guy doesn’t have as high standards as you, maybe he starts throwing pipe bombs in porn stores, maybe he knows , in his heart the president is ruining the country, and needs to be stopped, maybe he got beaten by some cops, and decides to pick as many as he can off from a building. No matter what, this new asshole, is going to get followers, and copycats, and on and on it goes. We have cops for a reason, we have courts, for a reason. And we don’t have half insane children’s performers doing these jobs for a fucking reason. “

Any combat is 80% attitude , another gem from Joe Rogan.

“ So what do they call you? Buzzkill? The Slippery Slope? Cheesecloth?” I say, trying to play down the fact that I am slowly realizing I am very, very far out of my element.

Another chuckle, “ Actually, they call me Freeman.” And by the time he starts the last word his hands are up, for a second I think he is giving some kind of surrender. Maybe my one liner hit home or something, but in the dim light I notice two cylinders flying at me, and just as they reach the edge of my peripheral vision. The both explode.

For a second or two I black out, I come to holding my ears and stumbling around in a thin fog, that is starting to burn my eyes.

My back hits a wall, a fist, hits my head, my head hit’s the wall, I hit the ground.

My vision is swirling, which is not helping the situation with the fog, I try to spring to my feet , something I can do in an instant, and have done a thousand times before. Before I get halfway straightened , a boot hits my chest, I manage to stay on my feet , but only barely.

I look around, tears pouring out of my eyes, trying to find where in the hell “ Freeman” went. It isn’t that the fog is that thick, it isn’t that the sting is that bad, and it isn’t that I have been knocked into a stupor , it is the deadly combination of these three things. The thought hits me, that this is exactly what he intended , and again, I realize I am facing someone who, to coin a cliché , really “ Has my number”.

Long before I notice Freeman, I notice his jacket on the ground. And by the time I can even begin to think of why this may be I start to fall to the side. 6 inches shorter than me, at least 40 pounds lighter, ( not to mention the fact that, a life of clownery gives one a decent, if not epic muscle tone.) and still I am being taken to the ground , and there is not a damn thing I can do about it.

I put my hands up defensively , and feel a series of blows, it feels like the man Is swinging a hammer into my versus a fist, I take a few hits to the face, as I move my hands trying to get some kind of handle on what is going on. In the brief seconds I get, I see why his jacket is being left unattended.

The cloth of his costume is blurring his form, not completely, but throwing enough visual static, that in combination with the fog, and the fact that I have taken no less than 12 blows to the head, I find it hard to get any bearing, even if I could attack, I wouldn’t know where, all I can see clearly is the outline of the goggles.

My face feels like one gigantic throb, blood pooling on the ground under me.

“ You know, even if we lower the bar to just fucks like you, your still bottom of the barrel.” He says, very matter of factly, as he stops throwing blows for a moment.

That moment, was all I was going to get. But I am used to having to take advantage of a moment, comedy is timing, acrobatics are timing, prestidigitation is timing. Timing, is kind of my thing.

I feel his weight shift, as he grabs my forehead with his left hand and draws his right back for a strike that I am guessing is meant to kill me or knock me out. My calves curl under my thighs, and once my knees clear free of his body , I straighten my legs, throwing myself into a rather painful skid, backwards.

I hear tearing, I feel something sharp dig into my back, but , for all intents and purposes my plan worked. I manage to get to my feet, stumbling backward, as Freeman stands tall and starts to stalk toward me.

“ Really? “ He says, drawing out something from waist holster. “ How much blood you think you can lose asshole? Bet your starting to feel a bit dizzy aren’t you?” He says, as the thing in his hand, some kind of club, or baton, makes a whirring noise.

I start to try to move a bit, loosen myself up, I begin to sway side to side, snakelike, wishing I had some weapon, some real weapon , other than luck , kitchen equipment, and a half assed grasp of psychology. I realize something at this moment though, my only advantage, is that he thinks I am no threat. And by the way this is going , maybe I am not, but I am not the “ Guns N Ammo” “Soldier of fortune” , armchair soldier he thinks either. I am not in this for the thrill.

And then it hits me.

I make a comically loud hocking noise, and hold a hand out in front of me , all of the flash strips in it, I spit, a disgusting massive glob of phlem, saliva and blood. And as I thought I managed to get this oyster onto them before they react with the air. I pretend I am rubbing my hands together , itching for the fight, getting off on the battle itself. Just like he would expect.

I throw my hands up and wide, “ Come on!” I scream, inviting him to take his best shot, which more than likely would turn me into a bloody pile. He shrugs a bit , chuckles a little more and says “ You are the first clown that has actually made me laugh. “ as he charges , his from going from almost defined to almost one with the smoke , in an instant.

He is expecting a punch, and as such starts his swing early, negating a reach advantage, the whirring steel club coming in fast. But I wasn’t going for a punch, in fact what I did could barely be described as a blow.

I roll with the hit from the club, managing to only have my left arm go numb for a second as it connects solidly. But as it does, I rub my hand, lightly across Freeman’s face, the dark red glob standing starkly against his otherwise indistinct form.

I skip to the side, heavily favouring my left arm, I quickstep backwards as far as I can , and instead of pressing he stands , looking at me. His body language couldn’t be more clear, but just in case he begins to speak.

“ So you smeared spit on me…”

“ ….5.…” I say.

“ Really? Why not just give up? You don’t have anything a doctor can’t….” He continues

“ …4...” I continue cryptically. Huffing in a hit of helium.

“ Fix, why not keep it that…”

“…3...” I say, drawing the word out for a long time.

“ What the fuck are you….” He begins to say, but starts to rub at his forehead. “ son of a bitch….” he continues as he starts to try and move the mask around. I grin widely.

Back in the Victorian era it was considered to be a sign of wealth to have a coin shaped scar on one’s hand. Why you ask?

Well clowns, have always had to have a close relationship with prestidigitation. There is only so many times one can get a laugh by getting hit with a rubber mallet, or a pie. And near the end of the Victorian era, the big trick on the block was “ Heated money”. It was half way between a séance, and a magic trick. The effect was blamed on spirits of past owners of the coin, in reality , obviously, it was nothing so supernatural.

There was two ways to pull this off. The first involved knowing what kind of coin was going to be used and soaking it in a glass of cold water, a quick pat dry, and the coin would be overly cold when originally used. Strike up a bit of conversation as you tell your mark to watch your hand, making sure you havn’t switched coins. Toss the coin to the mark, and now instead of feeling like it was a cold coin going to body temperature, they would marvel as it felt it went from normal to quite hot.

This first method required one to be good at palming the coin, creating friction and selling the effect. And like everything, people just get lazy, and this is why the second method was invented.

A strip of treated magnesium was affixed to the back of the coin. The heat from the mark’s hand would start its slow lightless burn. And 9 times out of ten, by the time it got hot enough to hurt them, they would drop the coin.

But lets think about this for a moment. This was the Victorian era, technology, was not exactly perfected, this held just as true for sanitation as prestidigitation. Some folks would get normal Mag strips, untreated, and instead of a slow burn rising to intense, the strip would ignite much faster, heating the coin, and leaving many nobles with a permanent reminder of the performance.

Ironically, these later performers became preferred , as better conduits to the nether realms. As always, losing is winning when you’re a clown.

The mask ignites, mainly in a 2 inch area between the goggles, with a sickening hissing noise I hear the white hot metal hit flesh.

“ Fuck!” he screams , trying to find a handhold in the mask, but whatever it is made out of seems to be melting as the heat reaches its apex. Leaving him with , undoubtedly painful globs of the plastic like substance on his hands.

Within a second , the magnesium itself is out , though a few small bits of mask remain stubbornly smoking or with tiny licks of fire trying to gain a foothold. But distraction was what I was after.

Fuck Joe Rogan, fighting isn’t about attitude, or momentum, fighting is about being able to do the most vicious thing in a given situation. To not worry about “ Fair Play” or “ fighting dirty” , to do as many terrible things to as many soft parts of your opponent as possible.

And some people, just can’t do this. This is why I am still up and fighting. Freeman was more worried about making me see I was wrong, or giving me a chance to give up, when he should have simply planted that club in my skull as I walked by.

I charge, with no fanfare, no quip, no sound that isn’t absolutely required, and take advantage of his distraction. He may he stronger than me, but leverage is a wonderful thing. I pin his head between my shoulder and the wall of the alley and grab the front of his uniform with one hand and the back with the other. I give every ounce of effort I can to pressing against his head, as I pick him up, just enough to get him off the ground. I then start running.

The stride is awkward for a moment, but once I get used to the friction , I build speed. The effect is terrible. First to go is the right goggle, three steps in it gives way, and I notice, not an eye underneath, but what appears to be a port of some kind , with red, inflamed flesh on all sides of it. I keep up the run, knowing that once he gets his bearings, I will have exhausted my only trick that has worked. I hear the noises, of steel , flesh, and bone grinding against the wall, he throws an elbow, from his cramped, awkward position, but it still manages to knock the wind out of me. Knowing the trick is almost played out, I simply heave him straight forward, and a half second before he lands on his feet, he realizes there was a dumpster in his path. The grip that is used for stabilization when it is being unloaded, snaps one of his ribs with a loud pop.

He actually staggers forward a bit before pulling out a long wide combat knife and getting into a low stance. The port where his eye should have been is sending out an off white fluid in erratic spurts , he actually looks hurt, not out of the fight , by any means, but hurt.

“ My timing was off on that one, sorry. It would have been a lot cooler if I got to one before that happened , wouldn’t it?” I say, drawing the steel curtain rod from my coat. I feel like I am brining a cap pistol to a mob war, but it does give him pause.

“ Fuck me, “ he says angrily. “ John!” he screams “ going to need you down here, lucky fuckin’ shot from the clown. “

Suddenly a window explodes, and jumping from it, is the largest person I have ever seen in my life.

7 foot 5 at the very least, and so wide it seemed to beg the question how exactly he got from the window. Unlike Freeman, he wore only a pair of old jeans, torn and faded, held up with a length of thick rope. He was a black man, but to say that, is not doing him justice. His skin was an artificial midnight black, the whites of his eyes were only a slightly lighter black, with the exception of a thin red iris. He was intimidating, imposing , he barely seemed, real. He seemed like what every KKK member would have nightmares about, just a collection of all the most intimidating physical stereotypes attributed to black folks, exaggerated, and put together.

And this isn’t to mention the fact he was holding two hammers, heads easily twice the size of a cinderblock, with thick 4 foot steel handles, he spun them around like they were nothing and pointed one at me.

“ Think your going to get a lucky shot in again?” His voice, completely in contrast to his appearance sounds very intelligent, more fitting for a college professor than, whatever the hell he is.

I hear police off in the distance. And as I pick up on this I also hear a “ Fuck” from Freeman.

John, turns toward him, “ Police are on their way. Non informed police by my guess. “ he says calmly, as if he has had to have a conversation starting with this, with Freeman , many times before.

“ I know, god damn it. “ he says venomously. “ We’ll be meeting again, fuck face, And your going to wish you took me up on the offer.”

And with that they both take down the alley, the thugs, long since departed, I try to keep up with them, but between the fact that I can barely move without pain, and that they would be faster than me on my best day, I am left in the dust rather quickly.

Parareality Induced By Trauma : Episode 4

And there I was, standing in an unfamiliar house, beaten, hurting, and with a corpse sitting at my feet. The reality of what is going on hits me harder than the thrown bottle. You never see this part in the movies, you never see the avenging angel with a look of confusion and trepidation on its face, wondering if what it thinks is the right thing to do, is actually just some kind of psychotic break.
I feel less like an avenging angel, and more like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Getting caught seems a noble cross to bear , but once it starts staring you in the face, it is a bit harder to keep up the moral fortitude.
Out of the corner of my eye, which is rapidly starting to swell, I catch something, a movement down the hall. My vision blurry, the hall lit only by the faint glow coming from the computer room, I can’t make out who it is.
Something flies by my head, and I hear a smashing noise behind me, the form in the hallway begins to run. This is the point where any plan I may have had goes straight out the window. My best guess is that it is not the kid, the wife , maybe, or maybe someone completely different, a random factor that I couldn’t possibly have known about.
In a few strides I catch up to this shadowy figure, slamming my knee off a small table in the process. My hand grabs a shoulder and spins this unknown person around, I am staring down at the mans wife. That same woman I saw earlier, and the same person that I had made the decision to kill long before I came.
My hand snaps out to her throat, and she hit’s the wall. Suddenly I feel a pit in my stomach, that sound, the sound of head striking wall, throws me off, breaks through this half drunk rage, and makes me realize that what I am dealing with is a human being. I open my mouth, not knowing what to say. I mean, what is there to say? “ Hello, just offed your husband, maybe we can talk this out?”
Something clicks in my head , and before I utter a word, I take a deep inhale from the device. Not helium, a high squeak probably wouldn’t do me any good in this situation, but a deep breath of “ The heavy” as its called in performing circles. My voice comes out as an exaggerated deep rumble, my nerves making the voice sound like a combination of Barry White and Mic Jagger.

“ Did you know?” I ask, trying my damndest to sound calm. She has a reaction, that is for sure, fear, she starts to scream, but no answer is forthcoming.

“ Did , you , know!” I scream, the sound unnerving me a bit, beyond feeling like I am losing my grip, I can hear it in my tone.

“ Know what god damn you!” she screams in my face, her rage, matching my own, but sans the confusion.

And then it dawns on me.

How do I know she is telling the truth? I didn’t think this far ahead, actually I assumed, somehow it would be obvious. That there would be a kind of sixth sense, or something, inspired by my newfound altrusim, that would guide me. But no, I find myself thinking she is lying, but in no way shape or form do I “know”. And a gut feeling, is not really acceptable, when it is lives on the line.
Rage and confusion, the two most powerful emotions , the two states of mind that have fueled, so many of humanities best inventions. We were confused as to what was out in the dark, so we made a torch. We were angry at the neighbour in the next cave, so we invented the spear. Millions of years later, Confusion and rage have given us streetlights and handguns, GPS and ICBM, the scalpel and the bayonet.
What it is giving me, is a headache, and a sense of dread. So many factors are starting to close in on me, the police could be coming, I could have been taped, she might have already pressed a silent alarm….
I grab her by the hair, and drag her to the computer room, her screams do not fall on deaf ears. Far from it, actually, with every shriek, every grab at my wrist, every cell in my body is telling me to let her go. Asking what the fuck I am doing, why am I not simply walking down to a psychiatric ward and checking myself in. But I just can’t, not because of rage, far from it, but because the second I do that, I drop this façade that I have erected , it is over. I am just some lunatic in a clown suit splattered with blood, not….what am I? Vigilante? Psycho? Thief? Clown? All of the above? None of the answers stated?
I throw her into a heap on the floor. She is crying, and trying her best to make it seem like she is overcome with emotion. I know better.
I may not be a lie detector, but in my profession, one has to know how to read people. To tell the kid who is scared of clowns ( avoid at all costs) from the kid who is just entirely too happy to have a clown there. To tell the father who can take a spritzing with a good natured laugh , from the guy who will have no problems punching you in the face if he gets wet. All essential in being a performance artist, of my stripe.
And this woman, is not overcome with anything. She is biding her time, maybe trying to wait it out until I come to my senses. And in all honesty, good call on her part. How much longer can I keep this up?
I jam the thumb drive into the computer, currently displaying a blue password screen, with a flicker and an unpleasant noise, the desktop , in all its glory, is back. I pull her to her feet, pushing her head inches from the screen.

“ This, you stupid bitch!” I say, hearing my voice start to raise a few octaves, surprisingly I manage to hold her in this position with one hand, while inhaling a deep blast of the heavy from my other.

She grasps the situation a tad quicker than I did , and stops wailing. Her breathing gets quick, not enraged, per sae, but overwhelmed in the extreme. The odd sob chokes out of her and I let her go. She is telling the truth. At least to the best of my knowledge. Her reaction is just too… real.
But, isn’t that exactly what one would expect from someone who is manipulative enough to keep her son being gangbanged by her husband and his friends, for god knows how long? To be able to put on a normal face, the same way I put on the face of a killer?

A killer.

That thought hammers the point home, that is what I am. Regardless of reason, regardless of intent, I have made the decision to kill. That is who I am.

A wave of panic hits me, I have never been prone to attacks of anxiety, but there is only so much a person can take. Those thoughts come screaming back in, those harbingers of reality that shit on the parade of the self righteous.

“ I killed a man….” I say, the last word being interrupted by a noise from outside of the room. The wife, still shaking and sobbing, is drowning it out.

“ Quiet” I say simply, craning my neck toward the door.

“ He..l…p….” I hear in an almost drunken slur, I waste no time and slide out of the door, backlit by the now red glow from the computer.

I realize two things at the same time ( literally, if you have never had two simultaneous thoughts hit you at once, it is quite the experience.) , the first is, that while terrible, the skull fracture most certainly did not kill the man , though it may be sending him on his way. And second is that I do have a way to see if the wife is lying.
I say nothing , but I let my footfalls hit the floor heavily, I grab an ankle in each hand and begin to drag the husband toward the computer room. He tries to flail about, he tries to grab at the floor, the overturned table, anything to stop whatever I have planned. But his brain is missing too much, his movements are jerky, and almost random , his pleas are unsensical and slurred. While he was my physical superior 15 minutes prior, now , he is just pathetic.
I should be disturbed, but now is not the time for that. Life hangs in the balance, and I am not just worried about taking the wrong life, that is easy enough to fix by leaving, but if this woman is an accomplice , not just an ignorant housewife, I am just as worried about letting her live. It would defeat the entire purpose of this excursion.
The way I see it, if she is in on the act, she is not going to kill him. Or if she is , and cold enough to want to save her own life , she is going to do it quick and clean, or at least as quickly and cleanly as she can. On the other hand, if this is news, I should be seeing the fury of a mother not just protecting her child, but one that has failed to do so , for a long time.
I walk very slowly to the computer room, coming up with a suitably spooky sounding speech to give the woman, kind of Jigsaw esque. My performers hat donned, I lean against the doorframe with one hand, appearing as a black silhouette, I stay silent for a moment, and hooking my foot under the man’s belt I send him on a short flight into the room.

“ You have…” is all I manage to get out, before she is on top of him. Not a question, not a comment, just a flash of late 40’s fury and she is sitting on his stomach. She has, something, my guess is a piece of broken glass, though I didn’t hear any breaking, and she is plunging it repeatedly into the man. Not causing any long open wounds, but spots, and small tears of red with every few jabs.

It takes both forever, and is over in a flash. She doesn’t go for the throat, but just kind of stabs at random, face, chest, stomach ( I am sure if she could hit genitals from where she was sitting she would have.) , and as she starts to hit areas she has before , deeper holes start to emerge. His flailing stops about half way through, the pleas begin to get more garbled, I don’t watch, not in detail at least. Gore has never been my thing, but my guess is that with the stabs to the face, his talking organs are all becoming too damaged to use, even with the bar being set at brain damage.
She sits there, shaking and heaving, and with one final stab, drives the glass ( later found out it was a shattered c.d. case she intended to use to off herself.) through the top of his head, the depressed skull fracture, caused by the well placed bottle. He makes a noise that was a mix of pathetic and disturbing, and with a whiff of shit and piss, dies.

Good enough for me, was my only thought.

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?