Smiles of the Clown
Smiles of the Clown
It wasn’t his fault. Of that he was certain. Though it was the clown way to pick out a scapegoat from among the unfortunate bystanders to blame for some mishap, this was no laughing matter. It had all happened so fast that not even he had ample time to process it. Now, sitting on the dusty curb at the corner of Litzan and Stiltzkin Drive, he pondered on the incident and strived to piece it together.
He had always wanted to be a clown. His parents never needed to encourage– or discourage– anything. He had grown up with clowning in the family, learning the tricks of the trade from his father and uncle, who had been the hit duo Pennybottom and Wisecrack until the traumatic night involving a heckler had driven his uncle to drink and his father to attempt a short-lived solo act. Things had not quite been the same afterwards.
Soon, the time had come for him to attempt to make his mark, and he began exploring and experimenting his clown antics with crowds on the street, for his father always said, a man who clings to his father’s heels, Benson, is still a boy. Even a clown has to know how to toughen up, even know how to cry. For a couple of years he firmly strived to make a name for himself, performing on the streets, in playgrounds, by popular locations of entertainment, even booking the occasional children’s party when desperate times had called for the desperate measure of committing such a demeaning act. Finally, with a hoot and a holler, unable to contain his joy, he had received an invitation to join the most prestigious circus in the land. His father was overjoyed, his uncle was thrilled despite his personal depression, and he had waved them goodbye from the window of the cabin as the train rolled out of the station, never taking his eyes off the nostalgic image of Pennybottom and Wisecrack, one arm over each other’s shoulder, and the other waving their farewells. A tear welled up in his eye. He would make them proud.
When he came to the large wicker gate that marked the entrance to the renowned circus, he couldn’t help but marvel at the scene. So many people were wandering about to see the minor performers conduct their shticks. He was filled with an exhilaration beyond his control that spurred him to seek the office tents. Pushing and shoving past the crowds and almost tripping over feet a few times, he finally came to the tents, confined to a spacious corner on the other side of the grounds. The receptionist greeted him, and after running him through some business protocol, she asked him for his clown name.
“Bobo Zan,” he proudly replied.
The receptionist looked at him for a moment, considering the validity of the name. She finally nodded her approval and wrote it down on a list she had on a clipboard, reminding him that he shall henceforth be addressed by that name, and by that name alone. She then motioned on a map to his quarters and the main tent, and showed him off.
The clown quarters were on the outskirts of the premises in rainbow coloured tents. He walked in and was greeted by all the chipper and jolly clowns of different shapes and sizes. They showed him to his bunk and showered him with confetti and nostalgic reminiscing, knowing him to be the son of Wisecrack, of whom they had thoroughly enjoyed along with Pennybottom during the era of the hit duo. He had spent many joyful days with them, his new family, laughing at antics, brainstorming routines, even performing in front of audiences larger than he had ever seen in his baggy multicoloured attire and ridiculous makeup. It had all been going incredibly well, like Heaven on Earth. He was the star of his own hit act. Then it happened.
During a performance one late-summer evening, he and a couple of his friends were to be unicycling about the stage in the main tent while some other clowns were comically clad in a donkey costume to serve as a diagram for Hiphop– the biggest fan of Benson’s father and uncle after himself– to perform an act paying homage to Pennybottom and Wisecrack. It had begun with flying colors, but Hiphop, known for his spurs-of-the-moment improvising, took it up a notch too far. With his poker, he had indicated the donkey’s head, feet, and buttocks, referring to three different audience members by the such parts respectively based on how they had replied to the questions he had asked them. There was an uproarious laughter throughout the tent, ringing in Benson’s ears and prompting him to suppress a rising giggle. And then he heard it– loud and clear, like an atomic bomb had been dropped in the surrounding area. The expletive and insult exploded from the audience member that had been labeled the donkey’s ass, taking Benson back to that night when a heckler had brought about the ruin of Pennybottom and Wisecrack with the holler of a similar phrase.
He lost his balance on the unicycle, but rather than fall, he attempted to stabilize himself on the contraption, only to end up worsening the matter. He whirled around the stage, narrowly missing Hiphop, the donkey, and the other unicyclists. The crowd, screaming in fear, frantically moved themselves in different ways so he would not hit them either. With another attempt to steady himself, he made a jerking turn and burst from the Big Tent, dislodging one of the supports, which instigated a chain reaction causing the arena to whip and flutter to the ground. His fellow clowns hollered out his name over the screaming audience as the blue, red and green tarpaulin fell upon them. He wheeled around the fairgrounds as people dipped, dived, and dodged, unwillingly toppling over benches, stalls, and even a couple of stilt performers in attempts to clear the way– until he himself finally rammed into the popcorn cart. The kernels flew everywhere, the butter poured onto the unlucky children at the front of the line, and he lay in the flood of confection, still as stone, wallowing in the shame of the incident.
By the time he opened his eyes again, he was alone in the clown quarters, quite disoriented and without any memory of how he had gotten there. A firm fist pounded upon the tarpaulin accompanied by a stern female voice he recognized as belonging to Mandy Frederickson, the boss’s assistant, who everyone called the Cheese Stick due to her penchant for dressing her slender body in orange to match her sunset-red hair. She was calling out to him by his clown name, commanding that he show himself, and, clambering to his feet, he crossed the tent to answer. Mandy, with her notorious black clipboard cradled in the crook of her arm, gave him a look of disapproval– her customary reminder of her power over all the performers of the circus– and ordered him to follow her to the business sector, where the boss would like to have a word.
He followed her awkwardly, his head low, knowing all eyes were on his indisputable walk of shame. No one had ever truly seen the boss except on posters hung about the grounds. He was a portly man with black-rimmed glasses and a handlebar mustache, fitted in a black suit with the longest tails Benson had ever seen on a jacket. But while having the serious and imposing face of P. F. Sutton casting his gaze about through the posters as though actually surveying the premises, everyone knew that being called to the presence of the man himself was a bad omen.
Mandy Frederickson led him to a secluded corner of the grounds, where an assortment of trailers were arranged in orderly rows, and knocked on one of the trailers in the central rows, whose appearance evidently described the man who lurked within. Frederickson opened the door without waiting for an answer and motioned Benson in. A large desk occupied the middle of the interior, and a woman in a blue uniform tended to the stacks of paper placed neatly on top of it. Upon the walls of the surrounding area were posters and blown up photographs of the circus interspersed with paraphernalia of Barnum and Bailey, for Mr. Sutton was distinguished in his infamous boasts of being the great-great nephew of P. T. Barnum (even though it was a known fact that he had merely descended from a distant cousin).
“He’s waiting for you, Bobo.” Mandy said before allowing the trailer door to close between them.
Benson waddled towards the desk, looking around, unsettled as to what his fate would be. The woman in blue awkwardly gestured with her pen towards the right where a door foreboded passage to the Sutton’s office. Benson thanked her with a slight nod, and hesitantly made his way over. He knocked shyly on the door with his knuckled, and as a gruff voice from behind bid him enter , he opened it, and stuck his head through. There he was behind his pretentious brown desk, his elbows propped up on top with his hands clasped together, as he leered at Benson through the smoke that languidly wafted from his pipe.
“I suppose you’re aware of why you’re here.” he said.
Benson shook his head timidly, sliding the rest of himself through the doorway with hopes that playing the innocent would in some way help him.
“You’ve made a mockery of my circus.” Sutton continued, his tone quite stern, and his words slurred from having his pipe clenched between his teeth. “And to worsen the matter, I have three complaints filed against me from the hot molten butter that you spilled on children when you knocked over the popcorn stand! Those kids are now in the hospital, you understand?”
He jabbed the words at him with his frustration, and Benson winced, accepting them with a nod, his hand clutching the knob of the door as though it was a support against the verbal pain.
“You leave me no choice but to let you go.”
“No!” Benson slammed the door, unwilling to believe the circumstances of the situation, his eyes pleading that Sutton retract his decision.
“My reputation is at stake!” Sutton rose so suddenly at his shout, his pipe fell onto the desk. He quickly recovered it and wiped the black crumbs of charred tobacco onto the floor before turning back to address Benson. “If I keep you, it’s my circus that will go under, and I will go with it as the son who tarnished the memory of Phineas Taylor Barnum.”
Benson felt the sudden surge of laughter rising through him, and it would have erupted, worsening his state, had Sutton’s following affront not suppressed it with its painful cruelty.
“Besides,” the boss stood up straight, and propped the pipe into his mouth with a pretentious smirk, “the days of Pennybottom and Wisecrack are long over. Nobody is interested in them anymore. And I’m no longer interested in you.”
His heart sunk with double the force from the sharp words that had pricked him like thorns in the bramble. He tried to fight his tears as Sutton took his final jab.
“I want you gone within the hour.”
He looked up from his knees, wiping a salty bead from his eye, and turned to the looming wicker gate of P. F. Sutton’s Soaring Circus that taunted his misfortune in the twilight. Phineas Francis Sutton, he muttered to himself. you’re the donkey’s ass! He rose to his feet, lifted his rucksack over his shoulder, and wandered into town in search of a bar, coming to understand the grave feelings that had long before driven his uncle to drink.
He walked the streets muttering to himself about how things could have been different if he hadn’t taken that turn or if Hiphop wouldn’t have all of a sudden changed gears.
“Hiphop is the one who needs to be ‘let go’, not me.” he grumbled, dragging his big shoes across the ground.
He approached a bar with a rather sombre feel to it it, which he found fit his emotions perfectly. As he opened the door, he felt the hot sticky air of the bar. The inside was quite nice and much more crowded than he had expected. A slight smile spread across his face as he looked around the room and saw that he was the only clown in there– or was he really a clown anymore?
He took one step, and suddenly he didn’t feel so clownish. He felt as if his gigantic shoes were big on him, as if his squeaky nose was too red, or as if he was too small for his baggy pants. He had never felt like that before. He had grown so used to his costume that it had felt better than his own skin. Now, he grew a little self-conscious about the ridiculous ensemble, and hurried shamefully towards where he saw a bathroom sign. His legs got tangled in themselves, and he fell over, knocking some chairs on his way down.
Some chuckles echoed around the room, but he wasn’t happy to hear them. He was the type of laughing stock that he always dreamed of being while he performed at the circus, but now that people were laughing at his misery, all he wanted was for it to stop.
“Why am I such a failure?” he sobbed, “I want people to laugh when I want and not when they please.”
He proceeded to the restroom and entered one of the stalls, wanting to take off his costume, the skin of his past, wanting to forever throw away the self known as Bobo Zan. But he realized the instant he began fiddling at the buttons of his pants that he had no other clothes, and despite it being the end of days for his beloved character, it was not the right time to bury him lest the man behind the mask– the long lost Benson Crowe– be arrested later for streaking. Furthermore, he wondered, there was no way he could possibly discard Bobo Zan. Without Bobo Zan, he would not know how to find happiness; without Bobo Zan, he would not know how to live! Benson Crowe without Bobo Zan was like peanut butter without jelly! He let his arms drop limply to his sides, sighing. It was indeed a dilemma.
He left the restroom and bee-lined to the bar to order a bottle of their strongest alcohol. He truly was finding himself spiraling down the hill of depression as his uncle once did.
After a couple of drinks, a group of clowns entered the bar. He recognized them as a few of his friends, including Hiphop. He was about to call for them but stopped, realizing he looked horrible. Shading his face, Benson became relieved when they waltzed past him.
“Did you hear? Bobo Zan got canned!”
“He always was an idiot.”
“Never liked that guy.” Hiphop said.
Benson couldn’t believe his ears. They were his friends, or at least he thought so.
“Clowns,” he mumbled, “they appear so joyful, but at the end of the night they’re drunk and stabbing their ‘friend’s’ back.”
In anger, confusion and mostly depression, Benson rose suddenly, only to almost fall over. He steadied himself and walked towards the exit, trying to go unnoticed. But to no avail.
“Hey, Bobo! I heard you weren’t going to make it to the Annual Clown Convention!” shouted Hiphop from across the room, laughing hysterically. “What a shame to let your father down so early in your career!”
Benson continued walking, pretending he had gone deaf. “Who would want to go to that silly convention anyway?” he muttered to himself, “Only clowns would be there! Clowns competing with each other for the most laughs, loudest crowds, even down to who has the most gigantic shoes, or the most colorful hair! Why should I care?”
He walked in a crooked line, almost falling over several times. He thought about how he would have to go back to live with his parents, how he would have to explain his disgrace, and how heartbroken his father and uncle would be to hear it. “If it weren’t for this competition then I wouldn’t have gotten fired,” Benson complained, “If it weren’t for this competitive aspect then that stupid Hiphop wouldn’t have changed the act to get more laughs. If it weren’t for this stupid competition then I would still have a whole clowning career ahead of me. Everyone would know Bobo Zan! If I were the only clown alive, there would be no competition, and I would be the very best!” His thoughts came to halt when he struck against a light post. He fell to the ground for a second time, but in the instant of hitting the ground, a thought had come to him– a devious thought that curled his lips into a bloodcurdling smile as he began to chuckle. There was no need to go home, he thought. He could spare his parents the shame of his failure, and recover the honour and integrity of Bobo Zan by exacting his revenge on all those who had done him wrong. He thought about murder.
Benson stood up, as raindrops began to fall on his head, onto his clothes, seeping through to crawl about his skin. He turn around, and ambled back toward the circus; toward Hiphop’s tent.
When he arrived in front of the tarpaulin entrance, Benson pushed open the flap and ducked his head inside. The tent was dark and empty. Benson realized Hiphop was most likely still at the bar, so he trudged inside, making a point to rub the mud on his shoes onto the roughly carpeted floor. Remembering where it was located, Benson pressed past the junk in the tent until he came in front of Hiphop’s collection of knives. Giggling, he lay his hand on top of it.
Drunken, Hiphop eventually stumbled back into his tent, almost knocking over the support beams. As he entered, he noticed the blanket of mud across his floor. For a moment, he stared at it, but, too drunk to make anything out of it, he simply moved on. He made his way to the small living room where two seats stood in front of a tiny television set resting on a wooden table next to the remote. Being a clown, Benson knew they weren’t paid nearly enough to afford the privileges of a television or knife collection. So, being the arrogant brute that he was, Hiphop stole the luxurious items from more esteemed circus performers and board members – including P. F. Sutton himself– and showed them off to the amazement of his fellow clowns. Benson had never condoned such behaviour, but it pleased everyone to at least know what it felt like to be on top, so he reluctantly kept his mouth shut about the issue. Hiphop sprawled on top of one seat and drunkenly reached for the remote.
Suddenly, a knife swooshed down from the darkness, and lodged into the wooden table, impaling Hiphop’s hand. Blood gushing forth, Hiphop opened his mouth to scream, but the noise was blocked by a large hand that immediately shut his mouth. Behind him, he heard a giggle evolve into a hysterical laughter as his assaulter swung around from behind the chair. Now fully in his view, Hiphop’s eyes widened in disbelief as he looked at his attacker. Benson pressed another knife to Hiphop’s throat and removed his hand from the bully’s mouth.
“Any last words?” Benson asked, snickering.
“Please, Bobo.” pleaded Hiphop through hiccups of pain. “Don’t do this.”
Benson’s smile dropped.
“Sorry, I’m not laughing.”
He shoved the knife inwards and watched Hiphop’s eyes widen and then flutter down. Benson rolled his lips back into a smile, and swished the knife into the dead clown’s mouth, slitting into his cheeks as though to forcefully make the mouth wider.
“But you sure are.”
He laughed, snatching the remote off the table, and pointing it at the television with a finger down on the power button. With Hiphop’s carcass slouched on one seat, wearing a bleeding smile as a bloody hand was pinned to the table top, Benson sat down on the other seat, kicked his legs out, and interlocked his fingers behind his head.
“Thanks for letting me stay the night, pal.” he said menacingly turning to the corpse. “Just like old times.”
Thunder rang outside as the rain continued to patter onto the tarpaulin roof.
Just before sunrise the next morning, Benson was preparing his stealthy escape from the clown quarters Hiphop’s tent to the murmur of the television as it broadcasted the morning news and weather report. Benson had realized he didn’t have any spare attire to cover his blood-covered shirt, and searched into the deepest parts of Hiphop’s closet to find a black hoodie he assumed to be part of the loot of one of the thieving clown’s raids. Turning it around in his hands a couple of times, he nodded his satisfaction, and donned it as he strolled out the tent, draping the hood over his face, as he stepped through the threshold.
As dawn approached around four hours later, spreading its pale blue lights over the circus, the same friends that had been at the bar with Hiphop the night before marched to his tent with buckets of water. Benson, closely watching them from just outside the circus grounds, figured they were planning on splashing Hiphop with the water in order to wake the drunken fool up. Within a moment of entering the tent, they came rushing out again, hurling their buckets away, and vomiting onto the ground as they fell to their knees. The tallest one, who Benson recognized as Bucky, was the first to recover and sprint to the medical ward. Benson casually picked himself up, slid one knife he had saved from Hiphop’s collection into his new hoodie’s pocket, and walked away with that diabolical smile that fueled his ambition.
Later on, Benson took a celebratory period of relaxation under a bridge, unfazed by his repulsive surroundings. For a moment, the thought of his father receiving the news of his dischargement had entered his mind, but in spite of the calibre of its gravity, he expelled it, and returned to his scheming. Hiphop was dead– now it was time for the lackeys that tagged along with him in the bar the night before. Benson tossed about in his mind gruesome tricks and tactics with which to off his former companions, carelessly tossing the knife in the air, until the peculiar emptiness in his stomach began to growl for nourishment. He slumped down fully onto the ground, wondering what he was going to do for food, when a rustle in the nearby bushes caused to spring his head up to see a large rat scurrying about. It stopped for a moment, unaware of the presence of a would-be predator, and Benson slowly picked himself up on all fours, knife at the ready, and slowly narrowed the distance between he and the rodent. The rat sensed the danger, and dashed into the bushes. Benson jumped into action, trying to follow the rodent’s movements through the rustling bushes until he found himself on the highway just as a car was closing in, with intent on crossing bridge. The car came to a screeching halt in front of him.
“Jesus Christ Almighty, man!” the driver yelled angrily out his window. “Get outta the freaking way! What’s wrong with you? Dirty rotten stinker!”
Benson, strongly offended, responded by pressing his dirty hands on the gleaming green hood of the car and maneuvering himself to the driver’s window. Enraged, the driver threw open his door and stepped out. He was a tall and bulky man who stood with intention of intimidating his attacker, but Benson remained calm, reaching into the pocket of his hoodie.
“Hey, man! Can’t you see that this is a nice car?” The driver seethed with fury. “Or do you just not care, you little pest!”
Benson didn’t answer. His veins were bursting with anger. With his face completely drained of emotion, he slowly pulled out the knife. The driver looked at the weapon as if it were made of plastic and snorted with disdain.
“Please,” he said, reaching into his back pocket for a switchblade which he waved for show in loose flicking motions, “you don’t wanna mess with me.”
Benson chuckled, brandishing his knife.
“Or do I?”
The driver raised an eyebrow. “You seriously wanna dance, freak?”
“I brought the right shoes.” Benson taunted flapping his big clown shoes in the air.
“You’re a clown,” sniggered the driver, dropping his guard a little at the pathetic sight in front of him.
Benson saw his chance and threw the knife, which hit the driver in the lower brow.
“That’s Bobo Zan to you, punk.” He sneered as the driver flopped to the ground. “Teach you to mess with me.” He looked down and eyed the handle of the switchblade in the outstretched hand of the corpse. “Well, well.” He picked it up and flicked it open for a better scan of the weapon. “You will definitely come in handy.” Glancing in the window for anything else of use he quickly reached in and grabbed a satchel bag in the passenger’s side.
A siren blared in the distance, and down the empty road, the silhouette of a squad car came into view. Benson dove for the cover of the bridge, and scurried through the bushes, back towards the circus grounds. The presence of the police impeded certain maneuvers, but he was still determined to execute his grand scheme while surprise and anonymity were still on his side.
Bucky had been with the circus for several years and often played second fiddle to Hiphop’s lead. He was tall with bushy eyebrows, a large beard, and a bald head. The other clowns always made fun of him for having the least clownish of appearances. Unlike Hiphop, Bucky did not steal, but he was smart with his money, only going out to get a drink occasionally. So it was no surprise that he was able to afford small luxuries, but nothing like what Hiphop had in his tent. When he had visited Bucky in the past, Benson always noticed a few prominent things lying around: a mini fridge, a gigantic picture of his clownmate that hung loosely on the tarpaulin wall, and a collection of books. But Bucky, no matter how much he had pretended, was never a friend to Benson. On several occasions Benson had overheard Bucky backbiting about his form to Hiphop. He had even insulted Pennybottom and Wisecrack to his face, calling them alcoholics and failures. His most recent offense was his presence and participation in the shaming of Benson at the bar behind his back after he had gotten fired.
Entering the circus grounds, Benson looked around at the eerie emptiness. It seemed the news regarding Hiphop’s death had spread around the premises, and everyone kept in their quarters so as to remain accounted for. With a devious smile he approached a photo of Sutton, staring up at it in defiance.
“Today there won’t be a crowd.” he whispered, talking to both the photo and himself. “and tomorrow you’ll have nothing at all.”
He then turned and briskly headed through the empty fairgrounds towards Bucky’s tent, as the sound of sirens wailed in the distance. Upon arrival, he gently lifted the flap and ducked inside, hiding his face neatly under the hood of his hoodie. The tent was faintly lit by sunlight passing through the tarpaulin. Bucky laid on his mattress with a book in hand.
“Who’s there?” Bucky called out, quick to notice the quiver of light from the flutter of the tent flap. His mouth dropped in shock as Benson sprang at him, his switchblade rushing through the air, striking Bucky’s shoulder, as the latter attempted to dodge him. Bucky fought against his aggressor with all his might, grasping hold of his wrist and keeping it from guiding the knife anywhere else around his body. With a fierce and painful grunt he pushed on the wrist, pulled the knife out, and threw the intruder to the ground. Swinging a hand to clutch his shoulder, Bucky then backed up towards his mattress.
“You’re the one who killed Hiphop.” He realized, scrutinizing the murderous villain before him.
With a devilish smile, Benson removed the hood from his face. “And I’m going to kill you next.”
“Bobo?” Bucky gasped. “Why are you doing this? Is it because you got canned? I had nothing to do with that, I swear. We’re friends, remember?”
“Liar!” Benson objected as he jumped at Bucky, attempting another attack.
However, Bucky had backed up to his mattress where he was able to grab hold of a framed picture showcasing himself and his clownmates. Just as Benson shot up in the air, Bucky raised the picture to swat him down. It smashed against Benson’s cheek, shattering the wooden frame and scattering splinters that pierced Benson’s leg. Benson tumbled to the floor, the switchblade narrowly missing Bucky, catching instead onto and tearing his shirt. Bucky turned to make a break for the exit, but Benson rose once more, and, aiming for Bucky’s back, flung the knife, hitting his clownmate square in the hip. Bucky screamed in agony as he dropped to the floor next to his wooden clothes crate.
With a frown of feigned pity upon his face, Benson limped towards the writhing Bucky.
“Aw,” he said with a mocking, tisk, “such a shame.”
He reached down and plucked the knife from Bucky’s hip, who squirmed in response.
“Don’t worry, old pal. This will only hurt a lot more.”
“So it’s just me and Hiphop, huh?” Bucky asked, having reached his hand under the wooden crate.
“I’m not sure. I heard Chester and Zippy along with you and Hiphop in the bar.”
“Don’t do this to them.” Bucky sobbed. “They never did anything. Sutton did this to you. Go for him if you want revenge.”
After a moment of thinking, Benson said, “Good idea. I can just go for the main guy. But that doesn’t take any of you off the hook for adding to the injury! And I can’t just leave you here.”
“That’s not true, Bobo.” Bucky replied, his eyes clouded by tears. “Please. You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, Bucky.” Benson replied, “I do.”
Benson had plenty of fun slicing off the tail of the snake, but now it was time to go for the head. That thought caused a stir, almost the feeling of butterflies in his stomach. He could see the other tents shake gently with the wind picking up as he made his way across to the business sector. He laughed at the idea that even the tents were scared of him.
He smugly sung to himself, skipping from tent to tent, all the lovely tools he had pilfered in his handy satchel clinking softly as he walked. “Its funny how many menacing things can be found in a circus tent,” he mused to himself. Out of all his loot, however, his favorite was the pair of slender, silver icepicks he found folded inside a soft cloth bag concealed within the satchel.
Inching closer to Sutton’s trailer, where the boss could often be found scowling at his desk, Benson found himself peering through the window, looking through the dirty glass with a sinister glare as thunder growled overhead. He recalled the weatherman having said earlier that there was a high chance that the storm from the night before would resume with greater force. He didn’t know how right he was.
Sutton grimaced, rummaging through the papers on his desk. Lawsuits, requests for interviews with the media, and headlines flashing like lightning before his eyes. The shame was pressing upon the burdened man’s chest, tingling the tips of his ears, even straddling his shoulder blades like a red-hot brand. A soft knocking on his office door jerked his head up to find his assistant, the slender woman whom he had never seen flinch in this entirety of knowing her, pale as a sheet.
“More papers to sign, Miss Frederickson?” he asked haggardly, wary of the notorious black clipboard held loosely in the clasp of her shaking fingers.
“Not exactly, sir.” she replied slowly, as if every syllable was trouble for her.
“Well spit it out, lady. I’m not getting any younger.” He joked.
“It’s the police, sir,” she said, her heels not aiding her quivering legs. “They need to speak with you.”
His legs never worked so quickly before; it was as if his life depended on what the men in blue had to say. He breezed past his assistant, knocking her clipboard down in the process and not even pausing to notice as he flew out of his office. The wind whistled in through the slightly open window, rustling papers on the desk, and making Mandy jump a little. Oblivious to the eavesdropper hidden in the growing darkness of the storm, she bent down to pick up the clipboard, cursing under her breath. She closed the door halfway behind her, disappearing from view.
Benson paused for a moment and then gently pressed the door open. As he creeped inside, he honed in on Sutton’s voice.
“Well, officer, I’ve seen better days, for sure.” Sutton was saying, chuckling nervously. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Well, sir,” the officer informed him bluntly. “It’s been brought to my attention that another of your performers has turned up dead. Found ’im not too long ago. I didn’t know if you’d been informed or not.”
“My god…” Sutton gasped, his voice tremulous as if he had just seen a ghost.
“Actually, we’ve seen a spike in deaths around your circus recently. Another body was found by an abandoned car not long ago.”
Sutton gritted his teeth. Now he was the one who was spooked, his face twisting with thoughts as his mind battled with the news. Everyone knew Hiphop was reckless. Sutton could see the fool mucking about and getting himself beat, and Bucky would have followed him in some way or another, the doltish oaf that he was.
“Mind if we ask you some questions, sir?’
Sutton cleared his throat. “Sure, officer. What do you need?”
“Do you know of anyone who’d want to harm your performers?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“A disgruntled employee, perhaps?”
As if on cue, nature itself responded with an ominous crash. The fluorescent bulbs groaned in the surge before the power finally gave out.
“Hello? Officer?” Sutton called out.
“Mr.Sutton? Are you okay?”
“Yeah. It’s just the power.”
“Hang tight, okay? I’ll have my men work on getting the power back on.”
“Okay.” Sutton choked out, hearing the policeman charge out of his trailer.
“Frederickson, grab a flashlight, will you?” he called out.
“Yes, sir,” cried the wavering voice.
Benson smiled, listening to her heels click in the dark as she stumbled around the trailer, and eventually into the office. Clasping his hand over her mouth he took her down with a heavy thud.
“Frederickson?” Sutton called out. “Where’s that blasted flashlight?”
Benson shoved a clown nose in Frederickson’s mouth with a soft hushing noise, and shoved her into the cabinet.
“Frederickson, where did you go?” Sutton called out once more.
He could hear Sutton approaching now, hustling back towards the office as carefully as he could in the dark until he burst in, his hands peering into the abyss around him.
Crunch
Sutton froze as he felt something break under his foot. He bent down, fumbling until his hands clasped a thin piece of broken wood. After running his hands about it, he soon realized that he was holding a clipboard– Mandy’s black clipboard.
“Oh my god.”
Sprinting, Sutton made it into his office when the emergency generators finally kicked in. A shadow loomed behind him, flickering in the failing fluorescent lights.
“Faulty mechanics, boss?”
Benson smiled as Sutton jumped in fear.
“I heard,” Benson began, clown shoes squeaking as he approached, “you’re looking for some new talent?”
“B-Bobo?”
“The one and only.” He smiled widely.
“W-what do you want?” Benson hardly recognized Sutton’s squeaking voice. Why did he get such a kick out of this? The fear? The suffering? To Benson this was like a drug, and he could see himself doing this same cat-and-mouse chase over and over.
“Oh, you know: to be the greatest clown the world has ever seen and make my father proud. Ever hear of Pennybottom and Wisecrack, sir?”
Benson never felt more alive. These words that floated from his lips brought him back and put him in mind of where it all began when he first met Sutton in this cold, musty office. Benson jerked Sutton around to face him, his once cheerful paint now smeared across his crazed face. He slammed Sutton against the wall with a growl. His grip was strong, nearly suffocating Sutton.
“Do you want to see all the wonderful things I can do, sir?” Benson snarled. He could see his own murderous glare in the gloss of Sutton’s wide, fearful eyes. Something new sparked in Benson, but this wasn’t Benson anymore. The little boy who used to clown around his backyard with his father and uncle, the young man who had grown up watching Pennybottom and Wisecrack perform their schticks of merriment, the clown who was all too thrilled when Sutton had chosen him of all people to join his circus was gone now. That sweet, smiling dreamer was gone and the savage beast that was Bobo Zan had taken over. The fire in his eyes and the sin in his smile drilled deep into Sutton’s gaze, revealing everything to him. He was the one who went after Hiphop, Bucky, and the poor man on the highway too. Sutton could see now that Benson loved this.
“Now,” he licked his lips, the switchblade concealed in his sleeve falling perfectly into his hand, “the ultimate job of a clown is to make some smiles, right sir?” He lightly slapped Sutton on his right cheek. “Right… sir?” Sutton nodded as Benson brought the switchblade to his face.
“I brought along a little bag of tricks, boss. Do you want to see?”
Benson released Sutton as he reached for his satchel. The terrified boss attempted to scamper away, but Benson roughly grabbed him by his belt.
“Tisk tisk, not so fast, boss. You must stay till the end of the show.” Benson threw Sutton to the wall, pinning his fat arm to the wall with one hand and clenching the other around his neck. Before Sutton could shake himself from the haze of the impact, Benson plucked an icepick from his satchel and plunged it into Sutton’s hand.
Never did a sweeter sound than Sutton screaming enter Benson’s ear. As Sutton writhed, Benson drove a second icepick though Sutton’s other hand. In Benson’s eyes, Sutton looked perfect with his body pinned against the wall in agony, preparation for the rest of the fun ahead.
“Now where was I?” Benson asked, ignoring Sutton’s cries. “Smiles. Right.” He went back into his bag, pulling out a variety of dangerous tools. Clamps, vices, knives, a cigarette lighter, and some other weird instruments that he honestly didn’t know how to use but looked fun were all lined up neatly on Sutton’s desk.
“Oh wow look at all these toys!” Benson crooned with a taunting grin.
Sutton let out another cry, his arms thrashing about as the blood trickled down. Fearing the cries might attract unwanted attention, Benson ran the blade teasingly down Sutton’s lip.
“You know boss, the crowd’s getting kind of loud. Oh, I just can’t stand hecklers. They could drive a man insane. Now for my first trick, I’m going to make that tongue disappear.” In one fell swoop, Benson ripped open Sutton’s mouth, grabbed his tongue, and sliced off the slimy organ. Sutton’s cries died down. He was reduced to mewling and gurgling like a newborn baby.
“Much, much, better.” Benson smiled, patting the satchel with satisfaction. “Now, pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile! Smile! Smile!” He knelt down and examined Sutton. “You know. I’ve never once seen you smile.” He swished the switchblade in Sutton’s mouth and sliced the smile through the corners. The blood gushed out as Sutton scrunched his face in pain.
“There we go!” Benson chuckled. “I finally made sour, old Sutton smile.”
He placed his palm against the boss’s adam’s apple and pressed with all his might.
“It’s time to take a bow, boss! We’re almost done here. Can you feel the house lights fading?”
Sutton’s face flushed as his breath was cut short, gurgling as his body shook until he could fight no more. The look of hopelessness expanded in his eyes as he gave up. Sutton slumped in his constraints, now just a shell of the man he once was. Benson picked himself up with a sigh and made his way to the cabinet in the corner.
“Enjoy the show, Cheese Stick?” Benson menacingly asked, opening the door a crack to find the pale woman cowering behind her running mascara. “Indeed you did.” He chuckled and walked away, never to be seen again.
It didn’t quite matter what became of Benson. He was a clown that could never clown again. All that mattered to him was the smile he had left on Sutton’s cold lips and the scar in the Mandy Frederickson’s soul as he disappeared from the premises, grinning to the sound of the assistant’s cries and the boys in blue bounding through the grounds to the business sector.
