Happy New Year

Every day at The Compound felt like an enormous April Fool's joke. More than a year ago today I had become imprisoned in this place, a collection of garishly colored townhomes situated in the apparent middle of nowhere.

The interior of each building resembled a hotel room, and in fact we had room service. Although for the most part a convenient luxury, contraband seemed to walk off on its own, and April 1st, your entire home became one large booby trap.

In the morning, room service awakened me with a Super-Soaker, and after I took my morning shower (Note: Shampoo was watered down), I discovered someone had coated my bath towel with powder that turned my face blue.

When my therapist, Cannon161, came by for a visit, I thought it mostly cleaned off, but he burst out laughing the moment he saw me.

Since we had no locks on our doors, he had just barged into my living room while I was preparing breakfast.

The short, plump faced man wore a jester's hat that day. Strange accessory for a black suit. I should have taken this as a hint not to accept his offering of canned chips, but I hadn't tasted Pringles for over two years.

The can actually contained a snake. They'd found a gardener and punched holes in the bottom of the tube to allow it air. The way he held it out to me should have given the gag away, but I fell for it.

No matter. I had a little prank of my own in the works, one I'd been working on since April 1st of last year.

He guffawed upon sight of my recoil. "Do you know the origin of April Fool's Day? It really is fascinating. People used to celebrate New Year's Day on April first, you see, but they changed it to January. The people who stuck with tradition, the others made them sorry in various ways." He grinned. "The expression on your face! Just priceless!"

I rolled my eyes at him. "And what does the snake think?"

Cannon chortled. "What indeed! Put the little thing to sleep so we could get it in there. Suppose I should let it free now that it's fully awake..."

This made me scowl. "At least someone is allowed their freedom."

Cannon's smile turned downwards a hair. "Don't be such a wet blanket. The day will be over before you know it, and you can continue being a regular sad sack again."

I returned to my kitchen, assuming Cannon would get bored and let himself out, but he did not. Instead he observed me with a wry smirk.

When I took the shaker to apply salt to my eggs, I discovered that the top had become unscrewed. It came out all at once, ruining a perfectly good meal.

"Oh ho!" Cannon laughed. "You should be more careful with that! Too much sodium is bad for the blood pressure!"

Snickering, he at last left me in peace.

After breakfast, I slipped out of my townhome, feeling like the only one not wearing green on Saint Patrick's Day, on constant watch for the next pinch.

It was a beautiful spring day, the rainbow of townhomes standing picture-perfect before the backdrop of a well manicured park. Cyclists pedaled down the tree lined bike trails, children flew kites in the open fields. I heard balls popping in the tennis court.

After being kept a prisoner so long, I got tired of the view, and today all the clowns were out.

A wet splat on my shoulder told me that even the birds had joined in the festivities. I resolved to keep an even temper.

My elaborate April Fool's prank also happened to be my elaborate escape attempt.

Since I'd discovered all the security cameras March of last year, I'd been setting up `Found Art' installations right in front of them, forming a misleading path to an all-too-obvious escape route. My real objective, however, was distracting everyone's attention away from the helicopter pad in the center of The Compound.

We surrounded a huge park, so I made up a little lie about adding my sculptures to the area to "Beautify" the landscape. I originally got the idea from a visit to the Compound's scrapyard. The Powers That Be applauded my recycling efforts, and even allowed me controlled access to wielding tools.

The installations trailed far away from the landing pad, edging close to an exploitable gap at the border, a gap not occupied by armed guards, nonlethal landmines, or other devilish machinery.

I think they were daring me to try that exit, and now I would not disappoint.

I modeled each sculpture after a character from an Uncle Remus story, a secret joke about my own trickery and escape: West of the duck pond I had Bruh Rabbit, resembling me with bunny ears, Tar Baby, nearly identical, stood behind the flower garden. Bruh Bear, standing by the Civil War Parrott guns, did not resemble a bear at all. I had other pieces besides those, Bruh Fox, Zomo the Hare, Mr. Bluebird, and so forth. 

Although I explained the whimsical theory behind these hideous monuments when I first put them in, nobody at The Compound knew their true purpose until I unblocked their moving parts on April Fool's.

I had gone to great lengths to hide the secret motors, and the equipment necessary to make each look identical to myself in silhouette. The elaborate process of activating them took me most the day, especially with all the town people approaching me with various gags to amuse themselves at my expense.

At one point, a snobby blonde in a BE ASHAMED OF YOUR RACE t-shirt dropped itching powder down my back and sprayed me in the face with a shot of seltzer.

Dusk fell.

Every day, around eight P.M., a helicopter would cross the treelines and descend from the sky, delivering shipments of supplies or occasionally removing a dead body. I'd observed its patterns for quite some time, and could more or less predict what it happened to be up to during various times of the week.

I checked my watch. The minute hand crossed twelve, and I heard the faint pattering of helicopter blades.

To avoid suspicion, I walked, seemingly unhurried, to the site of the first statue in the Remus Series, activating a gear box I'd hidden at the foot of a flagpole, as well as a flood lamp that made the sculpture look like part of my shadow. The Unified Government snakehead logo leered mockingly at me from its waving rainbow flag.

The chopper came nearer, blades stirring the calm night air with noise. Now was my time to act.

I admit the stunt was a long shot. I could only hope and pray that my grotesque attempts at artistic expression, at night, could fool casual observers into thinking I were making a break for the perimeter.

I ran past the landing pad just as the Bell 230 came down, blowing great clouds of dirt into my eyes and face.

Two guards had been placed in the area. Tattooed, muscular jarhead types. When they saw me making a beeline for a nearby copse of trees, they shouted about me breaking curfew, told me to come with them.

I dove behind a bush, but at the same exact time tripped a hidden switch that transformed Bruh Fox into a passable likeness of me running frantically to my next installation, where it would trigger the next sculpture with sort of a domino effect.

To my delight, the men gave chase, leaving the pilot alone at the pad.

Ducking beneath the whirling blades, I rushed into the cockpit, pulling the bearded, wiry looking man into a sleeper hold.

I bound his wrists and ankles with cords, jumped into the front seat to examine the controls.

I'd flown models like this before, but it had been a few years. 

I buckled myself in, flipped a few switches, then found the joke to be on me.

The altimeter had a hole in it, which sprayed me with a putrid substance, likely skunk oil.

The instrument panel itself folded into the floor, revealing a small television monitor playing the Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah song from Song of the South on an endless loop.

A small disco ball emerged from the ceiling. Flashing multicolored lights lit up the cabin. I imagined the music, deafening in volume, could be heard from at least a mile away.

Horrified, I jumped out of the chopper, intending to hurry back to my domicile, but that was when I found myself surrounded by figures in clown outfits, each bearing semiautomatics.

I slowly raised my hands as they closed in, slamming clips into their weapons. "I'm unarmed! I surrender peacefully!"

The figures with red noses and grease paint ignored my please, marching even closer.

They aimed and fired.

Instead of bullets, I got sprayed with paintballs and water.

Cannon, still clad in a suit, but now adorned with wig, red nose and clown makeup, stepped out from the crowd of Bozos, drawing a Smith and Wesson. "You, sir, are in violation of curfew."

He pointed the pistol at my head, cocked back the hammer. "For the crime of attempting escape, I sentence you to death!"

Cannon pulled the trigger, and a bang flag popped out.