Clowning Around

[This story contains sex, violence, abuse and swearing]

“The joke’s on you.”

“The joke is on you all.”

“I’m not fucking around. Things are going to be different around here. I’m different. It’s not like it was. It’s never going to be like it was.”

“There’s a new clown in town and he’s here to stay!”

“I’m The Clown!”

HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! HaHa! 

OhgodhelpmewhathaveIdone…

Mummy? Where are you, Mummy? I miss you so much. Come back. I need you! Mummy? Mummy!

*

No one knows about his place. Everyone needs a place of their own. Doesn’t matter what they call it or how they choose to dress it up. It’s a lair. Pure and simple. That’s what it is. Not a boudoir or a crash pad or a crib and certainly not a home. 

Never a home.

Home is where the heart is and he was born without a heart.

This place was his lair and he wasn’t into sharing, but he had no choice when it came to a certain someone. That certain someone had come along one day and chosen to stay rent free. You could call him a squatter, just as long as you never called him that to his face. 

Never do that to his face.

Or anything else for that matter. He’s a deceptively sensitive soul and he snaps all too easily. You won’t like it when he snaps. Not one bit will you like it. 

The anonymity and sanctity of this lair was safeguarded in a great many ways. Layer after layer of protection and defence. 

The lair and him both.

*

Boris had come into the world in the same way every other soul does. Painfully, red raw and screaming. The transition from the claustrophobic confines of the womb was a shock to the system, more so the cold air that he was forced to breathe in order to survive. There was no going back for Boris, but that never stopped him dreaming of a return to a place that was free from the violence and pain that was a constant throughout his life.

Boris was a mistake.

Mummy told him as much.

That was another constant in his life, Mummy reminding Boris that he was a mistake who got in the way and cramped her style. Her style helped ensnare her clients. Boris loved her style. He always thought her beautiful. Her style paid the bills, but there was never enough money for Boris. Mummy needed that money and Boris owed her more still. It didn’t take long for her to co-opt her clients into helping her punish Boris for his unwanted presence in the single room she rented from one of her clients.

At first, the punishment took the form of harsh words. Boris knew no different and the words didn’t hurt all that much really. The problem was that Boris had this bad habit of growing and that enraged Mummy all the more and she shared this rage with some of her regulars. Mummy and client egged each other on and discovered new ways to make their point, punishing Boris in more innovative, but most importantly increasingly painful ways. 

Cigarette burns were particularly painful, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was when Boris saw a change in Mummy and after that change there was a change in her clients too. Boris became a part of what was on offer. He was a toy that Mummy used to keep her clients entertained.

Once she talked to Boris about that change, “I get money for you now, you little shit.”

Boris had smiled hopefully. This was a positive development. Mummy needed money and he was keen to help her. He wanted Mummy to be happy. If Mummy was happy then he was happy.

“It’s still not enough,” she added, “you ruined me and you ruined my life. It will. Never. Be. Enough. You will never be enough.”

Something had imploded within Boris then. You wouldn’t have seen it, even if you had been there to witness and had a program explaining what was going on inside the boy. That made it all the more terrible. The Boris that was, was no more. An important part of that little boy had buckled, bent and then snapped. 

Nothing would ever be the same again.

Only it was.

No one noticed any change in Boris at all. They didn’t even notice the ceaseless unending sameness of a boy who was no longer little. Not that they cared. Not his Mummy nor her clients. They neither cared for Boris or themselves. That was the world that Boris grew up in.

Unfortunately for those clients, a lack of care also meant a lack of attention. This dulled them and blunted their survival instinct. That would prove costly for them all in the end.

Boris may have been bent out of shape and broken, but that suited him fine. From the wreckage he resided within, he understood the world a little more and found ways to cope with it. 

Mostly he acted. 

He acted like he was fine and he watched and he waited.

He didn’t know what he was waiting for, but he waited all the same. He knew it was important to wait because something was coming, and so he waited until it came along and then everything fell into place. 

One of Mummy’s clients found violence to be an aphrodisiac, or maybe it was a sort of foreplay. Possibly both. Whatever it was, it worked for him and it paid well for Mummy. One night he was in a particularly savage mood and he beat Boris half to death before straightening up, licking the blood off his bruised knuckles and turning his attention to Mummy. Mummy had watched the show and smiled a genuine and encouraging smile. She had to be into it or it wasn’t going to work for Jimmy. Jimmy worked for the mob and was well connected. Mummy had designs of getting out of this shithole and going some place exotic with Jimmy. Jimmy had other ideas, but he didn’t share those plans with her. He got a bigger and bigger discount while she mooned over him and he liked having that edge, looking forward to the day he would dump her and leave her in a complete mess. He got off on that too. He was a purveyor of pain and he got a buzz out of its effects.

As Jimmy was about to start in on the main event he paused and turned around, “stop looking at me kid,” he growled at Boris, “what is it with this kid and the staring?”

He shook his head and then seemed to remember something. He reached into the inside pocket of his sharp, pinstripe jacket and pulled out a comic, “here, hide that ugly mug of yours behind this while the grown-ups play.”

“Ank oo,” Boris said as he fetched up the comic that had been thrown in his face, it was painful for him to try to speak, but he knew he had to remember his manners, even with a broken jaw.

That moment was to change everything. In that moment Boris met The Clown and The Clown met Boris. It wasn’t a match made in heaven, some matches are made elsewhere. 

*

Boris entered his lair at night. Always at night. That was when The Clown came out to play. The Clown danced and played and spread his own brand of cheer in the world. Boris loved The Clown. Except for his Mummy, The Clown was the only other person Boris would ever love. The nature and manner of that love differed markedly and this was not helped by the animosity between the two objects of his love. This was an enduring animosity that had existed from the very get go.

Boris always cast his mind back to those early days with The Clown as he took his seat and prepared for the rituals. He talked to The Clown and reminisced and as he went through each and every step and stage of his transformation they would relive their partnership, The Clown chuckling regularly at their exploits.

He’d killed Jimmy first.

But then, Jimmy had it coming.

Jimmy had hurt Mummy, and he’d done it more than once. He’d split her lip, then he’d blacked her eye. It was only going to get worse unless someone stopped it.

Boris had talked it over with The Clown. They would wait until Mummy fell unconscious after one glass of gin too many, then they would plot and plan until Boris knew exactly what it was that he needed to do.

Only, it wasn’t Boris who killed Jimmy, it was The Clown. Boris was fine with this. The Clown knew what he was doing. The Clown was good at this. It helped that he enjoyed it. 

“It’s going to be fun! Fun! Fun!” said The Clown gleefully and Boris had smiled. He hoped The Clown was right. He didn’t hold out too much hope though. His life had been a series of disappointments and he found he wasn’t all that bothered with fun anymore. Wasn’t even sure fun existed. Fun sounded like a lie that grown-ups whispered in your ear just before they started hurting you all over again.

On the night of Jimmy’s untimely demise, Boris used the make-up he had stolen from Mummy to bring The Clown into the world. There was really only one room in the place where Mummy and Boris lived, but that wasn’t a problem because Mummy had learnt to ignore Boris so completely that she no longer saw him unless she wanted to say something mean or hurt him, and as that was a lucrative deal, she saved that for when there was someone paying for it. Mummy wasn’t in the habit of giving out freebies.

Jimmy noticed though. He was half way through taking his snazzy jacket off when he saw the warpaint on Boris’s face, “what’s this?” he said, “it ain’t Halloween for another four months you little freak!”

Boris never said a word, but then Boris wasn’t Boris, not anymore. He had been. He’d heard Jimmy well enough, but it was The Clown who responded. It was The Clown who unfurled and showed himself to the world in all his glory for the very first time. 

The Clown was not little. Freaky maybe, but not little. He stood at his full height and Jimmy’s mouth fell open and his eyes widened in the first expression of fear that Boris had ever witnessed, and Boris was still there, only he was no longer at the controls. He was riding shotgun with The Clown and felt both enraptured and fascinated at what was unfolding before his very eyes.

“What the hell…” Jimmy managed to say this as he saw Boris become something he had never seen before. There was something terrible and very wrong about the boy’s face, and Jimmy had seen that face mashed into a grotesquery by his very own hands. The boy had applied make-up in smears and swatches that at first looked like it had rained and he’d dragged his face along a raindrop coated window, but as Jimmy stared at that odd face he saw it pulse and move and something came forth. Something very wrong. Something evil. Something that just did not belong. Not here. Not anywhere.

Bravely or stupidly, Jimmy remembered himself and took a step forward to confront the boy and end whatever was happening here. It was an instinct that had served him well and got him noticed and inducted into the mob. Never back down, always get your retaliation in first and do it decisively. Hit the problem hard and keep hitting until it ain’t a problem no more.

Jimmy didn’t even get around to raising his hand to Boris. Only it wasn’t Boris. Not anymore. The Clown was the one that wielded the knife that plunged into Jimmy’s guts. Jimmy looked both dumb and stupid in that moment. There was a comical vacancy in his expression as he looked down at the knife handle jutting out of his stomach and then back up into the grinning and gleeful face of The Clown.

The Clown barked an odd and clipped piece of laughter, then with his free hand, he encircled Jimmy’s waist, pulled him closer and danced a perfect waltz. Throwing Jimmy around like a weightless ragdoll.

DAH! DA! DAH! DA! DAAAH!

The Clown sang a wordless tune as he danced with Jimmy, a tune that was completely out of step with their dance, and at the end of Jimmy’s final waltz, The Clown took a half step back and with a theatrical flourish he brought the knife up through the middle of Jimmy with inhuman strength, gutting him like the proverbial fish, and just like that fish, Jimmy made sad little gulping movements with his mouth, blood dribbling down his chin in pathetic little pulses.

The Clown leant in to Jimmy’s mouth as though Jimmy was imparting the most important of secrets.

“What’s that?”

“I can’t hear you, Jimmy!”

“Speak up, man! We’re all friends here!”

But Jimmy collapsed to the floor to a chorus of The Clown’s laughter. He’d never solve a problem with his fists again.

“What did you do? What did you do? What did you do? What did you do? What…”

Mummy was stressed. Boris didn’t like seeing her like this. Thankfully The Clown covered her mouth with his bloody hand and stopped her repeating the same nonsensical question over and over. It was so very obvious what The Clown had done. Anyone could see that The Clown had bestowed upon Jimmy his just desserts. The Clown had reaped what Jimmy had sown. 

Simple.

Boris could never remember much of the next bit. The Clown comforted Mummy in the only way they both knew how. Neither of them knew much of anything else. The Clown did this each and every time he took care of a client. Mummy never stopped him and Mummy never said no, but then she’d never stopped anyone or said no to them for as long as Boris could remember, except perhaps him. Boris was the exception. Boris was different. 

But now he wasn’t.

Now he was special.

*

It was always going to happen.

Boris knew this.

There was an inevitability to how this was going to go from the moment he saw that comic and had come face to face with The Clown. 

“You gotta crack eggs to make an omelette!” The Clown had told him just before it happened.

Boris was a passenger at that point and could do nothing to stop him.

Nothing at all.

He didn’t even utter a word of protest and neither did he cry when it was done.

*

Every time he took his seat and readied himself for The Clown’s appearance he always did this one thing. Before he opened the make-up box and said the words that were an incantation to summon The Clown forth, he would always lean forward and kiss his Mummy on the cheek. Her cold skin felt strange against his lips, but then he’d never kissed her before The Clown came along, so he didn’t really have anything to compare it with. The lifeless uncaring eyes were a constant and reminded Boris of his childhood with this woman, how that had shaped him and brought him to this.

He tried not to think about that night, and he was thankfully spared most of it, but he could not erase the moment that The Clown had handed him Mummy’s head.

She’s yours forever now, buddy!

And so am I!

Then there was the laughter. The unceasing laughter. Always the laughter. The Clown had not been joking. Boris had The Clown with him always and forever now, and he had that infernal, endless laughter. As he painted his face and stared into the mirror he let go once again. It was quieter when he did this. It was better this way. The Clown was better at all of this. It was best for Boris to retreat and watch from his safe place. 

And let The Clown have his fun.